THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    SEA 


AND    OTHER    VERSES. 


BY 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  LIVINGSTON. 


[FOR    PRIVATE    DISTRIBUTION.] 


,  1891. 


KITTINGER  PRINTING  Co.  BUFFALO  N.  Y. 


PS 


To  Her, 

Whose  sweet  friendship 
And  sweeter  love 
Were  the  inspiration 
Of  my  first  verses, 
I  dedicate  this  volume 

Affectionately. 

A.  T.  L. 


7 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 

BY 
ALFRED  TENNYSON  LIVINGSTON. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

My  Friend: 

I  had  planned  to  have  this  little  volume  in  your  hands  to-day.  The 
responsibility  for  the  fact  that  it  is  not  there  lies  wholly  with  the  pub 
lishers.  To  me  association  is  much;  and  as  this  is,  of  all  the  year, 
the  day  of  sweet  associations  to  all  of  us,  I  am  deeply  regretful  that  I 
have  not  a  little  part  in  your  present  pleasure.  Ere  long,  I  hope,  my 
remembrance  and  this  explanation  will  greet  you;  and  I  trust  you  will 
find  in  the  book,  in  some  degree,  the  pleasure  its  preparation  for  you 
has  given  me. 

These  selections  are  chiefly  from  a  mass  of  material  which  developed 
a  few  years  ago  during  a  brief  period  when  I  was  left  much  to  myself 
and  my  varied  ruminations.  Their  composition  was  a  matter  solely  of 
agreeable  pastime,  with  not  the  remotest  intention  of  publication,  even 
in  this  private  manner.  My  apology  for  their  appearance  is  the  kind 
and  urgent  expressions  to  this  effect  of  the  very  few  of  my  friends  who 
have  heard  or  read  some  of  them.  Having  determined  to  respect  their 
wishes,  I  concluded  to  have  sufficient  copies  to  go  to  other  of  my  friends 
who  have  known  nothing  of  these  writings. 

As  the  book  goes  only  to  my  friends,  I  feel  sure  that  it  will  be 
leniently  perused.  Should  it  chance  to  fall  under  the  notice  of  others, 
their  justness  will  as  surely  modify  their  criticisms. 

With  all  good  wishes,  with  which  I  fain  would  have  greeted  you 
to-day,  believe  me 

Your  friend, 
JAMBSTOWN,  N.  Y.,  A.  T.  L. 

Christmas,  1891. 


CONTENTS 


PAOI. 

The  Sea,        ...-.,....  n 

Christmastide,     .........        23 

Love,             .........  29 

A  View  of  a  Life,        , .      .    .           .           .           .           k           .  -35 

October,        .           .           .           ..-'...           .           .            .           .  41 

Decoration  Day,        »  .           .           .           .           .           .           .  .47 

The  Ancient  Church  at  Tadousac,         .....  59 

The  Betrothal,           .   -         .             .            .           .           .            .  .65 

LOVE  SONGS.- 

A  Lover's  Farewell,     ........        75 

My  Love  Had  Gone,         .           .                       .           .           .           .  76 

The  South-wind,  Soft,             .           .           .           .    -                   .  -77 

The  Cloud  and  Field,        ...           .           .           .           .  79 

For  Virginia's  Sake,    .            .           .'  .     i    .       ~j  .           .           .  .81 

I  Wonder  if  She  Knows,              .           .         '."'..        .           .  82 

An  October  Idyl,          .                       .           .           .                       .  .84 

Is  it  Strange  that  I  Should  Love  You?           ....  86 

To  Virginia,       .           .           .           .           .           .           .           ,  .88 

MISCELLANEOUS: 

To  My  Father,        .           .           .           .           .           .                       .  91 

"Unmanly  Devotion,"            .           .           .           .           .           .  ,95 

Thanksgiving,          ......            t           .  97 

To  a  Young  Lady,       ........       99 

A  Flirtation,             ........  101 

Ideal  and  Real,             .                                   .           .           .           .  .      103 

My  Flowers  are  Fading,               ......  104 

To  a  Fern,          .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .  .10$ 

Were  These,  My  Dead,  Alive,                .           .   '•                   .           .  108 

When  Daylight  Dies,              ...         ..           .           .  .no 

A  Prayer,     .           ,           .           .           .           .           .           .           .  112 

PROSE: 

My  Native  Hamlet,      .           .           .           .           .           .           .  115 

My  Life  is  a  Stream,         .......  123 

Sentiment,           .            ,            ,            ,           ',    *       .            .            .  .      126 


THE  SEA. 


THE    SEA. 


/YREAT,  restless,  roaring  Sea!     To-day  thy  feeling  tones 
Ur     Vibrate  responsive  chords  within  my  tuneful  soul; 

As  when  a  note  from  human  throat,  attuned  by  heart 
Harmonious,  awakes  the  lute-string's  sweeter  lay. 
Yet  sometimes  I  have  wished  thy  voice  might  intermit 
One  little  hour,  or  but  a  moment,  even  while 
My  troubled  mind  conceived  a  single  thought;  just  that 
Thou  shouldst  not  ever  be  the  same  unquiet  sea. 
At  times  the  heart  wants  peace;   anon  the  weary  head 
Would  rest  if  all  around  were  in  repose;   but  to 
Such  heart  or  head  thou  never  givest  their  desire. 
Since  first  the  Hand  Omnipotent  laid  thee,  new-born, 
In  thy  vast  bed  thou'st  never  slept,  but  day  and  night 
Thy  big,  wide-open  eye  has  looked  in  Heaven's  face, 
Nor  blinded  by  the  burning  gaze  of  Sol,  nor  drowsed 
By  Luna's  softer  light,  and  in  the  spacious  vault 
Above  thee  nothing  has  escaped  thy  notice.     Thou 
Hast  seen  the  birth  of  suns  and  worlds;   and,  too,  thou  hast 
Beheld  the  last  faint  glow  of  stars  extinguishing. 
The  countless  host  of  shining  orbs  that  nightly  pass 
In  measured  tread  before  thy  sight  must  give  thee  thought, 
As  they  do  me,  of  Him  who  grandly  marshaled  them 
And,  in  their  wonderful  manoeuvres,  aye  maintains 

11 


Such  harmony  that  each  his  separate,  circling  path 
Pursues,  colliding  not.     And  those  rare  heralds,  whom 
Thou  hast  observed  with  brilliant  dash  appear  and  then 
As  hastily  depart,  speed  on  their  rambling  routes 
Like  one  who,  in  a  mazy  dance,  winds  in  and  out 
Among  the  rest,  escaping  each. 

While  thus  thy  gaze 

Is  ever  fixed,  thou  dost  exhale  thy  humid  breath, 
Which  to  the  fecund  Air  ascends,  and  presently 
The  vaporous  Clouds  are  born.     These,  morn  and  eve,  arrayed 
In  irridescent  hues,  extracts  from  purest  light, 
Are  fairer  pictures  than  a  Titian  may  portray. 
Nor  selfish  thou!     Upon  the  winds  thy  clouds  are  borne 
To  thirsty  lands.     In  pleasant  rain  or  crystal  snow 
Thy  breath  to  Earth  is  given;   who,  in  gratitude, 
Refreshed,  now  pours  into  thy  veins  abundant  streams 
Of  thy  own  food,  which,  entering  the  arteries 
Immense  that  permeate  throughout  thy  monstrous  mass, 
Becomes  the  nutriment  to  all  thy  utmost  parts. 

To-day  thy  mood  and  mine  are  one.     To-day  thy  pulse 

Is  not  more  tense  and  active  than  my  beating  heart, 

Thy  fretful  waves  more  restless  than  my  surging  thoughts. 

Though  boundaries  are  set  about  thee,  and  a  watch 

Upon  thy  deeds,  thou  canst  well  laugh  thy  sentinel  shores 

To  scorn  and  spit  upon  them  all  thy  mouthing  foam. 

What  though  they  hedge  thy  body  in?     Thy  thoughts  are  not 

Embraced  by  arms  of  land!     Thy  soul  cannot  be  mured 

12 


By  rocks  and  sand!      Thy  soul  and  mine  leap  over  bounds 
We  cannot  feel,  and  into  space  we  cannot  see. 
There  roaming,  far  beyond  the  narrow  ken  of   those 
Who  would  restrain  us,  we  approach  the  throne  of   the 
Creator,  and  our  thoughts,  expanding  wide,  take  in 
The  universe. 

Nor  can  thy  sentinels  control 

Thy  speech!      The  yielding  sands  continually  hear 
Thy  gentler  murmurs;    and  as  oft  the  rocky  coast 
Discerns  thy  indignation  in  thy  sterner  tone; 
While  to  the  haughty  cliffs  that  rude  command, 
"Thus  far!"   thou  shoutest  loud  defiance,  and  thy  blows 
Of   wrath  and  thunders  of    thy  voice  make  them  to  quake. 
Aha,  my  noble  Sea!      For  this  I  like  thy  voice — 
Thou  wilt  not  cringe  and  bow  to  stern,  resistless  Fate, 
But  in  thy  dignity  declare  alike  thy  scorn 
And  independence;   and  —  so  will  I  treat  my  fate. 

But  thou  art  very  kind  and  gentle  to  thy  friends! 
Thou  lovest  man,  who,  separated  from  his  kind 
By  all  the  length  and  breadth  of   thy  majestic  self, 
Must  to  thee  look  for  help  to  reach  his  fellow-man. 
In  his  frail  vessel  fixed,  with  products  of    his  clime 
Desired  by  men  in  other  lands,  he  bids  farewell 
To  friends  and  home  to  seek  for  pleasure  and  for  gain. 
To  thee  he  trusts  his  life  and  worldly  store;   and  thou, 
His  faith  perceiving,  dost  reward  it  by  thy  care. 
On  thy  soft  bosom  resting,  thou  dost  bear  his  bark 
To  destined  port. 

13 


At  times  emotion  deep  prevails 

Within  thy  soul,  and  swelling  thought    heaves  high  thy  breast. 
Then  pales  weak  man  with  fear,  lest  thou,  absorbed  o'ermuch, 
Forget  the  burden  light  in  thy  puissant  arms. 
His  cry  is  heard  by  thee  and  thou  dost  calm  thyself; 
And  now,  in  undulations  rhythmical,  thy  breast 
Doth  gently  rise  and  fall,  and,  by  its  motion,  lulls 
The  anxious  heart  to  peace  and  sweet  content,  as  bird 
Is  rocked  to  sleep  upon  the  little,  swaying  bough. 
O  gentle  Sea!    I  know  thou  hast  a  tender  heart 
And  would  not  ruthlessly  endanger  or  destroy 
So  frail  a  thing  as  man.      My  noble-hearted  Sea! 


Grand  secrets,  too,  and  mysteries  hast  thou  which  yet 

To  man  have  never  been  revealed.      The  drapery 

That  covers  the  uneven  bed  on  which  thy  form 

Gigantic  lies  is  woven  of  these  hidden  things; 

And  only  He  who  placed  thee  there  may  take  thee  up 

Again,  and  so  expose  to  the  rude  public  gaze 

The  wonders  known  for  ages  but  to  thee  alone. 

Till  then  man  may  but  catch,  in  thy  pellucid  depths, 

Dim  glimpses  of   the  treasures  rich  that  lie  spread  out 

Beneath  thee;   or  imagine  that  he  faintly  hears, 

In  thy  low  undertone,  the  voices  of   those  souls 

Who  perished  when,  in  rage,  thou  didst  forget  all  else 

Save  that  which  angered  thee;   and  who  were  doomed  to  lie 

Among  the  coral  and  the  sponge,  part  of   the  web 

Mysterious  now  covering  thy  couch,  to  there 

14 


Remain  until  the  clarion  trump  of  Gabriel  sounds. 

'Tis  true,  O  Sea!   thou  sometimes  art  so  overwhelmed 

With  rage  intense  against  thine  enemies,  that,  in 

The  tumult  of    thy  mighty  heart,  is  lost  the  thought 

Of  man;   as  when  the  children  of  thy  blood  and  breath, 

Gathered  in  compact  dark,  unfilial  and  unjust, 

In  jealousy  conspire  and  plot  against  their  sire. 

Riding  upon  the  wind,  Cloud  joins  with  Cloud,  and  these 

With  others,  all  denoting  in  their  lowering  frowns 

And  darkening  visages  their  evil  thoughts  and  ill 

Designs.      Beholding  this,  thy  gentle  heart  is  touched 

With  indignation,  which  grows  more  and  more  profound 

As  thou  dost  contemplate  the  all-rebellious  host. 

Thy  heart  beats  fast  and  strong;  thy  breath  more  deep  and  quick 

Is  drawn  as  anger  grows  and  agitates  thy  soul. 

Thy  children  note  thy  wrath.      In  fear  and  shame  they  call 

To  aid  their  friend,  abhorrent  Night,  whose  help  is  sought 

By  all  who  are  intent  on  foul  and  violent  deeds. 

Eager  responding,  horrid  Night  appears,  all  clothed 

In  black  habiliments.      Around  his  ponderous  form 

A  mantle,  flowing  wide,  obscures  the  canopy 

Of  heaven.      Emboldened  by  a  league  with  such  a  power, 

Their  coward  faces  hidden  from  their  parent's  view, 

Thy  children   now  begin   to  cast  upon  their  sire 

Their  fiery  shafts  and  shout   malignant  thunderings. 

Now  art  thou  overcome  with  grief  and  righteous  wrath! 

O  mariner  unfortunate!    whose  craft  infirm 
Is  tossed  upon  thy  turbulent  breast  this  night  perverse. 

15 


Say  now  thy  prayers,  O  man!    and  make  thy  peace  with  God. 
Thou  mayst  not  hope  that  thy  great  friend  will  think  upon 
Thee  now.      By  the  next  blow  his  frenzied  arm  will  strike 
Will  come  thy  doom  —  another  thread  be  woven  in 
The  hidden  drapery  of    his  couch.      So,  fare  thee  well! 

The  insulted  parent  who  as  yet  the  gathering  storm 
Of  strong  emotion  has  restrained  within   himself, 
His  breast  now  rising   high,  now  falling  low,  as  fast 
His  surging  thoughts  in  violent  waves  swell  and  recede 
Within  him,  raises  now  his  hoary  head,  its  white 
Locks   flying  in  the  rushing  wind,  and   hurls  his  mad 
Anathemas  against  his  offspring,  who  now  throw, 
In  quick  succession,  down  upon  the  Sea  their  darts 
Intense,  and  drown  his  voice  in  ceaseless  thunders  loud. 
Now  bright  illumined  by  their  flaming  shafts,  he  spies 
Their  leader,  darkest,  most  ill-favored  of  them  all, 
And  lifting  up  his  powerful  arm,  he  seizes  him, 
And,  swiftly  swinging  him  about,  he  dashes  him 
Against  the  rock-ribbed  land. 

In  dire  confusion  thrown 

By  the  destruction  of  their  chief,  they  fly  around, 
In  moving  circle  wide,  above  the  wrathy  Sea. 
Now  and  again   their  spiteful  thunderbolts  are  thrown, 
But  aimless,  and  sometimes  upon  themselves,  and  still 
In  awful  tones  reverberating  do  they  cry 
Against  their  author,  who  in  vain  extends  his  arms 
To   grasp  them.       Round    and  round,  across  and  back  they  fly 

ifi 


In  fearful  panic.       But  for  Night's  grim  presence  it 
Appears  their  clamorings  would  cease,  for  they  perceive 
The  folly  of   their  violent  course  and  fain  would  be 
At  peace  with  their  insulted  and  avenging  sire. 

Lo!   in  the  east  Aurora's  ambient  glow  is  seen, 

And  soon  her  rosy  figure,  softly  draped,  appears, 

Announcing  to  the  world  that  close  behind  her  comes 

The  King  of   Light!      And  now  that  monster,  who,  so  late, 

Performed  his  silent,  dark  and  inauspicious  part 

In  the  foul  scene,  is  quick  to  gather  round  his  form 

His  spreading  robe,  and  swiftly  to  the  West  he  flies; 

For  never  yet  has  Night  been  bold  to  meet  the  gaze 

Of  his  arch  enemy  the  Sun. 

Aerial  path 
Ascending  slow,  the  God  of    Day  now  greets  the  Sea! 

Perceiving  that  his  friend  is  sore  distressed  and  wrought 
To  highest  pitch  of    anger  by  that  keenest  hurt 
A  parent  may  receive,  a  child's  ingratitude, 
His  ire  is  quick  enkindled,  and  he  throws  upon 
That  cruel  band  his  hottest  glances  of  reproof. 
Their  rancor  thus  renewed  against  both  Sea  and  Sun, 
They  congregate  betwixt  the  two  and  hide  from   each 
The  other.    Then,  straight  through  their  vaporous  forms  that  King 
Projects  his  strongest  beams  and  quells  at  once  their  pride. 
Subdued  complete,  they  shed  the  tears  of  sad  remorse; 
At  which  the  Sea,  his  heart  a  little  softened,  bids 

17 


Them  all  depart  to  the  sick  Land,  their  further  tears 
To  pour  upon  his  thirsty  lips  and  fevered  brow. 
Then,  rapid  as  the  wind,  they  fly  beyond  the  shores 
Of    Ocean,  weeping  still  their  contrite,  crystal  spheres. 
The  kindly  Sun,  beholding  the  repentant  drops, 
Now  smiles  his  benediction,  and,  behold!   across 
The  sky  is  stretched  an  arch  of  beauty  which  mankind 
Regards  alike  with  wonder  and  delight.      'Tis  but 
The  light  of   love,  refracted  by  that  purest  lens, 
A  tear  of   honest  sorrow  for  a  sinful  deed. 

Although  above  his  heaving  breast  no  sign  appears 

Of   conflict  strong  so  recent  waged,  the  Ocean  still 

Is  deep  purturbed;   but  gentler  beats  his  calming  heart, 

And  longer,  slower  draws  his  breath.      And  now,  at  last, 

Again  composed,  I  hear  his  voice  upon  the  shore; 

I  feel  his  pulses  softly  beat;  I  see  him  look 

In  Heaven's  face  with  peaceful  eye  all  silently. 

O  Sea!    So  gentle  and  so  mighty!     In  thy  voice 

Unceasing,  and  thy  ever-throbbing  pulse,  type  of 

Eternity!      When  I  have  done  with  wandering 

Upon  thy  wave-washed  shores,  and  up  and  down  the  earth 

Have  traveled  till  I'm  tired;   in  vain  or  with  success 

Against  my  enemies  contended  long;   and  when 

The  hurts,  the  cares  and  sorrows  of   my  life  are  o'er, 

And,  at  the  bidding  of   Almighty,  I  have  laid 

Me  down  in  my  last  sleep  —  committed  to  thy  arms  — 

18 


I  then  would  have  thee  place  me  in  thy  ample  bed, 
Where,  'neath  the  rosy  umbrage  of   a  coral  tree, 
Reclining  on  the  wondrous  fabric  wrought  for  thee, 
I'd  sweetly  rest,  awaiting  the  glad  call  to  life 
Immortal  in  the  regions  of  eternal  peace. 
November  75,  1883. 


CHRISTMASTIDE. 


CHRISTMASTIDE. 


NOW  have  we  come  to  joyous  Christmastide! 
A  tide  that  waits  for  man  one  happy  day 
Each  year,  that  he  may  cease  from  care  and  trouble 
And  fix  his  thoughts  in  peace  upon  that  theme 
Around  which  cluster  all  his  better  hopes. 
Down  through  the  centuries  of   the  dark  past 
He  sees  the  Star  of   the  Nativity; 
Whose  light  has  never  been  one  hour  obscured 
From  the  attentive  eye  of    human  heart 
That  sought  for  sign  of  peace  and  purest  love. 
Quick,  on  the  wings  of   thought,  borne  to  that  spot 
He  stands  within  the  cave,  beside  the  child 
Around  whose  brow  have  limners  placed  a  halo 
In  token  of   the  origin  divine 
Of    that  sweet  soul  now  habiting  the  clay. 
'Tis  but  a  babe  —  a  puling  infant  now  — 
Yet  mortal  compound  with  the  Son  of    God! 
Before  whom  bow,  in  thankful  adoration, 
The  Wise  of  earth,  who  journeyed  far  to  greet 
This  wondrous  Web  of   mortal  and  divine. 
Upon  his  mother's  lap  they  lay  their  gifts 
Of   gold,  the  sweet  frankincense  and  the  myrrh, 
Thus  signifying  both  the  royal  need 

23 


Of  earthly  wealth  in  him  they  there  beheld, 
And  wafting  to  the  soul  divine  within 
The  fragrant  odors  fitting  to  a  God. 
Man,  standing  there  to-day,  in  thought,  is  conscious 
Of   something  more  than  to  the  Wise  appeared 
That  night  in  Bethlehem.      In  later  youth 
That  child  taught  wisdom  to  some  other  Wise, 
Who  marveled  that  a  lad  should  so  profound 
Appear  in  things  not  compassed  by  their  age. 
The  youth  became  a  man;   and  multitudes 
Beheld  in  humble  fellow-man  among  them 
A  power,  against  which  kings   were  impotent; 
A  hand,  that  touched  old  eyes  that  had  not  seen, 
And  they  beheld  as  eyes  of    babes  new-born; 
That  touched  the  lame  and  now  he  leaped  for  joy. 
They  heard  a  voice,  that  spoke  to  leper  foul, 
And  soft  his  skin  became  as  other  men's; 
A  voice  that  spoke  to  dead  now  wrapped  in  grave-cloths 
And  rotting  in  his  tomb,  and  lo!    behold! 
The  bonds  of   grave  and  death  were  broken  straight! 
In  Death's  habiliments  the  living  walked. 
Much  more  they  saw  and  heard  to  this  import. 
The  growing  child,  the  man,  developing, 
Has  now  become  the  offering  of  blood, 
Demanded  by  a  sin-offended  God. 
The  innocent  is  slain !    like  as  a  lamb 
Is  slaughtered  by  the  priest,  in  sacrifice. 
The  body  is  not  burned,  but  placed  in  tomb 
And  guarded  well  against  deceit  and  fraud. 

24 


In  vain  the  force  of   arms  is  now  employed 
To  keep  that  body  in  confinement  there. 
The  great  stone  in  the  entrance  rolls  away; 
The  man-and-God  walks  forth  in  morning  light. 
Last  scene  of   all  now  greets  the  eyes  of   men: 
Upon  an  eminence  this  Being  stands, 
Once  dead  and  buried,  now  again  alive 
By  that  same  power  he  used  to  give  to  others 
New  life  in  place  of    mortifying  clay. 
There  standing,  robed  in  flesh  as  other  men, 
Beheld  by  those  who  long  had  followed  him, 
He  sudden  disappears  in  flying  cloud, 
Nor  ever  more  is  seen  upon  the  earth. 
But  in  the  heart  a  gentle  voice  is  heard 
That  speaks  of  peace  to  sorely -troubled  soul. 
The  conscience  that  has  pricked  the  tender  thought 
Of   one  because  of   evil  he  has  done 
Is  but  the  prompting  of   that  Soul  to  right, 
Which  once  in  mortal  flesh  was  all  constrained, 
But  now  unloosed,  expanded,  occupies 
The  universe  of   man;   and  stands  between 
The  Father  and  the  truant  child,  his  brother; 
And  chides  a  sin  in  love  and  tender  ruth, 
Since  he,  in  flesh,  once  felt  the  selfsame  impulse 
To  wrong,  and  all  the  evil  lusts  of   man; 
And  cheers  the  patient  heart  that  suffers  long, 
Or  labors  darkly  through  the  tedious  night, 
Or  waits  long   years  for  that  which  cometh  not. 
To  all  he,  in  the  soul's  most  deep  recesses, 
Sings  ever  a  sweet  lullaby  of   peace. 

25 


So  joy  the  hearts  of  men  at  Christmastide, 
Which  waits,  as  other  tides  do  not,  for  them. 
And  so  they  deck  with  holly  and  with  bay, 
With  plants  that  lose  not  soon  their  living  green, 
The  temples  which  in  honor  of   his  name 
They  raised,  in  which  they  congregate  to  worship 
The  soul  that  gives  them  greater  peace  on  earth 
And  peace  eternal  in  the  world  to  come. 

So,  too,  they  hang  about  their  firesides  emblems 
Of  that  dear  day  on  which  the  child  was  born, 
And  make  their  homes  more  beautiful  with  flowers, 
And  always  give  good  gifts  from  one  to  other, 
And  call  together  them  whom  most  they  love, 
And  feast  them  with  the  best  their  purse  affords. 

And  though  they  mingle  in  their  speech  few  words 
Of  him  whose  natal  day  they  celebrate, 
Down  in  the  deeper  currents  of   their  thought, 
In  streams  of   feeling  which  most  strongly  flow, 
There  floats  a  little  ark  that  bears  the  Child. 

December  20,  f£8j. 


LOVE. 


LOVE. 


WITHIN  a  temple  of  the  living-dead, 
A  habitation  for  the  mind  diseased, 
Amid  a  varied  throng  alike  distracted, 
Who  once  were  quick  to  softest  sentiments 
And  joyed  in  home  and  in  the  dear  caresses 
Of  those  who  loved  them;   who  were  once  ambitious 
And  pregnant  with  the  dreams  of  life's  endeavor 
And  its  success;   and  buoyed  with  hope  as  any 
Who  then,  without  those  walls,  were  free  and  healthful 
And  eagerly  pursuing  wealth  or  pleasure — 
Amid  that  mass  of  mental  wreck  and  ruin 
There  sat  a  maid  of  tender  years,  demented. 
All  day  she  sat  there  in  the  selfsame  spot, 
With  eyes  half  closed  and  bent  upon  the  floor, 
Her  greasy,  puffy  face  unlined  by  thought, 
Her  cold,  congested  hands  in  awkward  pose 
Upon  her  lap  or  hanging  motionless 
Beside  her  chair,  her  lips  tight  sealed  in  silence, 
Nor  opened  save  to  take  of  food  or  drink 
When  offered  by  the  nurse;   a  breathing  statue, 
Unmoved  as  marble  by  the  life  around  her. 
She  breathed  and  ate  and  slept  and  woke  again; 
A  beast  does  this,  and  more,  but  she  was  human. 

29 


Thus  yesterday  and  so  to-day  and  daily 
I  saw  her  thus,  while,  like  a  panorama, 
Before  the  eyes  of  God  there  stately  passed 
The  various  scenes  that  marked  a  mundane  year. 


At  last  the  quiet  pool  begins  to  stir; 

*V       if 

The  healing  waters  now  with  life  are  troubled; 

The  sickened  soul  is  laving  in  its  depths. 

The  maid  arose  and  walked  with  open  eyes; 

Her  lips  again  were  parted  in  sweet  speech, 

The  quickened  thoughts  now  played  about  her  face, 

Her  eyes  expressed  her  wonted  animation, 

The  ruddy  currents  flowed  in  healthful  motion, 

And  as  the  widow's  son  threw  off  the  pall 

And  upright  sat  before  the  wondering  mother, 

So  stood  the  maid  in  my  astonished  sight. 


I  carefully  avoided  hasty  converse 
And  chid  her  nurses  to  a  like  discretion ; 
But  when  some  days  had  passed  and  still  I  noticed 
A  calm  demeanor  with  this  wondrous  change 
I  ventured  to  address  her  with  the  question 
Which  oft  my  mind  conceived  through  her  long  trance. 
And  so  I  said:  "My  dear,  I  want  to  ask  you 
What  you  were  thinking  all  those  many  months 
While  by  the  door  you  sat  in  utter  silence?" 
To  my  surprise  the  maiden  blushed  and  sighed, 

30 


And  hesitated,  but  when  I  again 

Renewed  my  query,  saying,   "  Tell  me,  Mary, 

Of   what  or  whom  you  thought?"    the  modest  maid, 

Her  eyes  upon  the  floor  and  hands,  uneasy, 

Engaged  in  bashful  plucking  at  her  apron, 

Replied:  "I  think  —  I  think  —  sir  —  it  was  Robbie." 


So,  Mary,  thy  long  day-dream  was  of  love! 
Of   loving  Robbie,  whom  thou  lovest  most! 
He  was  thy  god  and  thou  his  worshiper. 
Love  was  thy  sun;   thou  knew  no  other  light, 
And  by  that  light  thine  eye  beheld  but  one; 
He  was  the  earth,  thy  single  thought  the  moon. 


O  Love!     Thou  last  emotion  to  depart 

From  mortals  sick  in  body  and  in  mind! 

Thou  smouldering  ember  which  alone  keeps  warm 

The  heart  when  every  sense  is  numb  and  frigid! 

And  in  the  hour  of   death  thou  latest  friend 

To  bid  adieu  to  the  insensate  tissue 

Within  the  cavern  where  thou  madst  thy  home; 

And  last  to  linger  on  the  chilling  lips! 


Thou  sweetest  sentiment  of   man  or  God! 

Thou  dearest  thing  in  all  the  universe! 

Thou  sponge  that  wipes  out  every  tale  of  sin! 

31 


Thou  only  cord  by  which  the  soul  is  lifted 
From  earth  to  the  eternal  paradise! 
Thou  center  round  which  all  things  else  revolve! 
Thou  never-dying,  everlasting  Love! 

February  ig,  1886. 


A  VIEW  OF  A  LIFE. 


A   VIEW    OF   A    LIFE. 


I  have  a  heart  to  love; 
But,  one  by  one,  the  objects,  passing  sweet, 
On  whom  my  love  was  fixed,  slipped  from  the  bounds 
That  hedge  mortality.       Or  now  above, 
Around,  or  where  I  cannot  surely  tell; 
I  only  know  they  are  beyond  my  confines. 
In  dreams  I  have  reached  out  my  eager  arms 
To  clasp  the  fairest  vision  that  my  eyes 
E'er  looked  upon;  but  when,  in  trembling  joy, 
I  would  have  grasped  my  love  and  to  my  bosom 
Have  pressed  her  precious  form,  she  slow  receded, 
And  still  receded,  till,  in  air  dissolving, 
Her  sweet  face  faded  into  nothingness; 
And  I,  in  agony  of  loneliness, 
Awoke,  remembering  she  was  beyond 
My  mortal  reach. 

My  heart,  so  rudely  pruned 
By  heedless  fate,  yet  full  of  vital  force, 
Throws  out  each  day,  by  natural  growth  impelled, 
Its  little  tendrils,  which  find  naught  to  cling  to. 
The  vine  that  would,  by  complementing  help, 
Aspire  to  light  and  lofty  elevation 

35 


Lies,  therefore,  humbly  on  the  earth,  supine, 
And  is  contented  most  when  Autumn's  leaves 
Upon  it  kindly  fall  and  hide  its  dearth. 

And  I  have  ardent  lips, 
Which,  knowing  once  the  nameless  ecstacy 
Of  meeting  other  lips,  in  softest  touch, 
Prolonged,  while  pure  and  spicy  breath  perfumed 
The  air  inhaled,  and  circling  arms  firm  pressed 
Together  hearts  that  beat  in  unison, 
Cannot  forget  their  loss. 

I  had  ambition  once 

To  be  a  more  than  mere  existing  thing; 
In  honor  and  by  work  to  have  my  place 
In  foremost  ranks  of  acting,  thinking  men; 
To  find,  each  morn,  some  noble  work  to  do, 
To  see,  each  eve,  my  duty  well  performed ; 
Loving  my  fellow-man,  to  do  him  good ; 
To  be  a  husband,  master  of  a  home, 
Whose  mistress  true  loved  me  unspeakably ; 
To  be  a  father,  happy  sire  of  children, 
Who,  as  from  year  to  year  their  tender  natures 
Put  forth  new  shoots  of  beauty,  grow  in  strength, 
And  burst  in  fragrant  bloom  that  promises 
A  fruitful  time,  are  constantly'  a  joy; 
Until  in  later  years,  to  manhood  grown, 
One  takes  my  name  and  place  in  active  life; 

36 


Another,  in  fair  womanhood,  obeying 
Her  nature,  leaves  parental  care  and  goes 
To  grace  with  beauty  and  all  gentle  charms 
Her  lover's  home;  while  I  and  she  who  shares 
With  me  life's  woes  and  joys,  alone  at  last, 
In  pleasing  idleness  of  feeble  age, 
Feel  sacred  satisfaction  as  we  see 
The  dear  first-fruits  of  those  young,  thrifty  plants 
To  whom  we  gave  existence  and  a  name, 
And  watch  the  new  lives  sweetly  grow  apace 
And  bud  and  bloom  and  flourish,  while  we  wait 
The  termination  of  our  own.     .     .     .     This  was 
A  dream  —  ambition's  empty  recompense. 


I  have  a  life  to  live 
Which  is  not  all  delusive  as  a  dream; 
And  yet  I  find  no  joy  enticing  me 
To  still  prolong  this  weary,  mortal  round. 
One  constant  thought  —  would  that  it  were  His  will, 
Who  in  this  pulsing  mass  breathed  his  pure  soul, 
To  take  that  spirit  from  this  jaded  flesh, 
Defiled  by  contact  with  the  grime  and  soot 
Of  human  wretchedness  and  sinful  lust, 
And  in  some  other  sphere,  some  other  form, 
Permit  the  full  fruition  of  its  hopes! 
This  goal  awaiting  I  will  labor  on 
Until  my  lonely,  dreary  course  be  run. 

37 


Perhaps  in  some  fair  clime 

The  heart  that  here  is  bowed  with  griefs  and  woes 
And  rudely  tossed  in  tempests  of  this  life, 
Or  bruised  and  faint  from  knocks,  of  human  strife, 
Or  buried  quite  beneath  the  heavy  cares 
And  infinite  perplexities  of  earth, 
Yet  brave  and  calmly  meeting  its  hard  fate, 
Will,  in  a  richer  measure,  find  reward 
And  in  a  grander  strength  employ  those  traits 
Which,  born  in  sorrow,  to  perfection  grew 
While  daily  fed  on  rough  experience. 

October  jo, 


OCTOBER. 


OCTOBER. 


J~nHE  gorgeous  hues  around  me  vie 
With  colors  of   the  evening  sky. 
No  eastern  maiden  in  her  best 
Is  all  so  gay  and  richly  dressed 
As  our  dear  Earth,  in  red  and  green, 
Yellow  and  brown,  and,  in  between, 
All  shades  and  tints.      A  fairy  hand 
Touched  verdure  with  mosaic  wand. 

Low  in  the  West  the  sleepy  Sun, 
His  shining  day  of   duty  done, 
Rests,  purple-robed,  beyond  the  lea; 
A   moment  glances  o'er  the  mead, 
Then  folds  his  wings,  so  long  outspread, 
And  gently  sinks  upon  the  sea. 

Now  Luna,  while  her  father  sleeps, 
While  lonely  watcher  vigil   keeps, 
Brightly  reflects,  with   modest  grace, 
The  glory  got  from  her  sire's  face; 
And  chilly  air  and  falling  leaf, 
The  ripened  corn  in  tented  sheaf, 
41 


And  barren  fields  o'er  all  the  land 
Tell  that  October  is  at  hand. 

O  fairest  month!    If   but  thy  hues 

Might  ne'er  their  glorious  beauty  lose! 

If   but  thy  air,  so  pure  and  clear, 

Gave  strength  and  hope  throughout  the  year! 

But  no!   one  word  alone  I  see 

Upon  each  blade  and  flower  and  tree  — 

Change!      This  the  message  thou  dost  bear 

To  my  regretful,  listening  ear. 

Thy  hues  must  fade;  thy  leaves  must  fall, 

And  desolation  cover  all. 

Even  thy  stimulating  breath 

Must  icy  cold  grow  in  thy  death. 

After,  a  pall  of   purest  white 

Shall   hide  thy  form  from   mortal  sight; 

An  infant's  pall.      A  little  span 

Of    beauteous  life   (in  time  less  than 

A  single  year)  departs  in  thine, 

Called  back  unto  its   source  divine. 


And  this  is  life:     To-day  a  joy 
So  pure  it  seems  naught  can  alloy. 
To-morrow,  early,  it  has  fled; 
A  sorrow  find  we  in  its  stead. 

42 


Thus,  lonely,  sit   I   here  and   brood, 

Wrapped  in  thy  melancholy  mood, 

Regretting  that  I  must  again 

Be  roused  from   the  delicious  pain 

Of  these  sad  thoughts  to  hear  once  more 

The  busy  city's  ceaseless  roar, 

And,  midst  the  throng  and  tumult   rife, 

Engage  again  in  human  strife. 

On  train  from  Atlantic  City, 
October  79,  1883. 


DECORATION  DAY. 


DECORATION    DAY.' 


JT7HE  living  and  the  loving  stand  to-day 
Around  the  habitations  of   the  dead! 

Not  newly  dead  are  these  who  lowly  lie 

In  quiet,  single-chambered  homes,  asleep 

For  aye  to  voice  of   friend  or  to  earth's  din, 

Beneath  the  feet  of  them  who  kindly  come 

To  thatch  their  humble  dwellings'  roofs  with   flowers. 

These  earthy,  uncemented  walls  closed  round 

Their  unresisting  occupants  when  men 

Who  now  stand   here  with  bearded  lips  were  babes 

Unborn  and  leaped  within  their  mothers'  wombs 

At  shouts  of   victory,  and  quivered  there 

At  tales  of  strifes  in  which  their  sires  were  slain. 

Nor  to  their  mouldy  tombs  come  men  to-day 

In  sorrow's  crape  and  black  habiliments, 

With  swollen,  blood-shot  eyes  and  tear-stained  cheeks, 

Which  mark  the  visage  of   the  freshly  grieved. 

There  was  a  time  to  weep  and  sob  and  mourn, 

And  put  on  garments  of   a  somber  hue, 

When  living  eyes  saw  wounds  in  these  dead  forms, 

*  These  verses  were  written  while,  in  imagination,  upon   the  field  of   Gettysburg,   where  so 
many,  both  of  the  "Blue"  and  the  "Gray,"  are  lying. 

47 


Rude,  cruel,  foul-made,  gaping  wounds,  through  which 

The  ruddy  waves  had  ebbed  their  latest  tide 

While  battle-smoke  made  dark  the  fading  day 

And  war's  loud  tumult  drowned  the  last  faint  cry; 

While  one  great  nation  wept  and  sobbed  and  mourned 

With  mothers,  wives  and  sisters  of  these  dead; 

While  frantic  War  raged  up  and  down  the  land, 

Led  by  the  horrors,  Hate  and  Jealousy 

And  Anger  and  Revenge;   and  followed  fast 

By  all  the  fellows  of  their  reckless  train, 

Pain,  Sickness,  Death  and  Woe  and  ruthless  Ruin, 

And  all  the  Crimes,  and  all  the  vicious  Passions, 

And  Fire  and  Waste  and  Want  and  Poverty; 

And,  .over  all,  black,  wide-winged  Desolation, 

Dark  hovering,  shutting  heaven's  light  away. 


Now  those  dark,  dismal  days  are  but  remembered 

As  one  recalls  the  tragedies  of  dreams; 

And  gentle  Peace  now  hovers  o'er  the  land, 

And,  with  her  spotless  pinions,  fans  the  brow 

Of  Industry  and  swells  the  bellied  sails 

Of  Commerce;   and,  held  in  her  beak,  she  bears 

The  olive  branch,  and  in  her  talons  grasps 

A  vine's  rich  cluster  and  the  corn's  ripe  ear, 

Plucked  from  the  fruitful  fields  of   Agriculture. 

Prosperity  has  driven  Want  away 

And  Plenty  fills  the  garners  of   the  farm, 

And  Comfort  houses  every  son  of  toil, 

48 


And  Joy  smiles  in  the  sweaty  face  of   Labor, 

And  Hope  points  cheeringly  to  future  years. 

Now  babes  lie  tranquil  in  their  mothers'  wombs, 

And  wives  are  glad,  for  husbands  come  at  eve; 

And  maids  rejoice,  for  lovers  soon  return. 

Fire  glows  now  only  in  the  busy  forge 

That  melts  the  cannon  into  plows  and  tools, 

Or  from  the  earth  dissolves  her  precious  metals, 

Which,  by  the  pliant  hand  of  Art,  are  molded 

To  useful  shapes  and  to  the  world's  advantage. 

Sweet  Charity  has  joined  the  hearts  and  hands 

Of   men  who  once  raised  swords  against  each  other; 

And  Love  grows  beauteous  flowers  in  every  garden 

Of   all  the  country's  hillsides,  plains  and  valleys, 

And  on  this  happy  May  day  gathers  them 

And  brings  them  to  the  heroes  of  the  land 

As  her  best  offering  of  gratitude 

To  those  who  cannot  hear  the  praises  spoken, 

Nor  see  the  grateful  look  upon  men's  faces, 

Nor  feel  the  silent  pressure  of  the  hand. 

From  these  turf-censers,  sprinkled  with  fresh  flowers, 

While  summer's  suns  are  scorching  their  sweet  petals, 

A  fragrant  incense  will  arise  to  heaven 

And  bear  to  the  brave  spirits  of  these  heroes 

The  grateful  sentiments  of  human  hearts. 


Thus  shall  men  honor  most  the  noble  dead 
Who,  for  their  country's  weal,  accepted  woe; 

49 


Who  bore  the  mutilation  of  their  bodies 

That  its  great  body  might  continue  whole, 

And  gave  their  lives  that  its  life  might  not  perish, 

And  thus  bought  blessings  for  their  fellow-men. 

The  marble  and  the  granite  and  the  brass 

Are  cold  and  hard  and  senseless,  dead  reminders 

Of  lively  virtues  and  warm  sentiments 

And  soft  emotions  of  the  human  breast; 

And  their  stiff,  calculated,  chiseled  words 

Stand  there  through  generations,  formal,  fixed, 

As  the  full  measure  of  an  obligation; 

The  monument,  a  duty  justly  done; 

And  these  enduring  marks  of   estimation 

Are  granted  only  to  a  favored  few 

Who  were,  perhaps,  less  brave  and  suffered  less 

Than  many  who  lie  nameless  in  their  graves. 

But  flowers  are  Love's  sweet  thoughts  that  bloom,  like  love, 

Most  richly  and  profusely  in  the  spring-time, 

And  burst  spontaneous  as  love  itself 

Springs  from  one  heart  to  greet  another  heart. 

Each  new  day  they  are  fresh  and  always  welcome; 

And  they  are  varied  as  affection's  speech : 

A  stately  lily,  pure  as  its  white  petals; 

A  red  rose,  warm  and  blushing  with  its  passion; 

A  modest  daisy,  from  neglected  field; 

The  sweet  azalea,  from  the  wooded  hill; 

A  buttercup,  rich  as  its  golden  color; 

And  wee,  dear  violets,  Love's  constant  mentors, 

That  only  Winter's  blustering  blasts  may  silence. 

50 


Each  several  flower  has  its  own  pretty  speech, 
Its  silent  speech,  looking  the  thought  it  feels; 
And  flowers  are  soft  and  tender  as  the  thoughts, 
The  living,  loving  thoughts  they  represent; 
And  they  are  beautiful  to  look  upon, 
Nor  do  they  cause  a  shudder  through  the  frame, 
For  they  suggest  not  death,  but  beauteous  life; 
Not  the  dark  charnel  house  and  damp,  chill  dust 
That  once  was  quickened  with  a  living  soul, 
But  that  dear  soul  itself  which  now  inhabits 
Immortal  regions,  where  eternal  bloom 
The  everlasting  flowers  of  Paradise. 


So  stand,  to-day,  the  living  round  the  dead, 

Thatching  their  humble  dwellings'  roofs  with  flowers 

And  sprinkling  on  these  censers  Love's  sweet  thoughts, 

Which  Summer's  suns  will  burn  in  fragrant  incense 

That  will  arise  to  heaven  to  the  heroes 

Whose  bodies  moulder  in  these  lowly  tombs. 

And  so  the  living  ever  more  will  gather 

About  these  sleeping  forms  in  pleasant  springtime, 

Strewing  their  loving  thoughts  in  beauteous  flowers; 

Remembering  the  woe  these  dead  accepted, 

That  to  their  country  might  come  blessed  weal, 

And  that  the  mutilation  of  their  bodies 

Kept  whole  the  land  now  honored  and  majestic; 

And  that  the  present  reign  of  peace  and  concord 

Was  bought  by  blood  that  poured  forth  from  their  wounds. 

51 


But  there  are  other  dead  who  perished  then 

Now  lying  there  as  peacefully  asleep. 

They  were  as  brave  to  face  the  cannon's  mouth; 

They  walked  as  boldly  in  the  jaws  of  death; 

From  their  rude  wounds  their  blood  as  freely  flowed; 

As  manfully  they  laid  them  down  and  died; 

And  they  were  martyrs,  though  their  cause  was  evil. 

Their  cause  was  wrong,  but  they  believed  it  right, 

And  gauged  their  faith  by  no  less  than  their  lives. 

We  do  not  sing  to  them  our  songs  of    praise; 

Our  faces  are  not  toward  them  grateful  turned; 

To  them  we  owe  no  blessings  of  to-day; 

But  while  we  handle  these  sweet  signs  of  love, 

Of  warm  emotions  and  of  tender  thoughts, 

Shall  we  not  strew  some  on  their  graves  as  well? 

They  were  the  kindred  of    these  nobler  dead 

In  soldiers'  virtues  and  in  soldiers'  woes. 

Like  them,  they  left  their  homes  and  wives  and  sweethearts 

To  trudge  in  measured  step  with  gun  and  knapsack. 

Through  the  lone  night  they  paced  with  watchful  eyes 

And  beating  hearts,  while  their  worn  fellows  slept; 

They  heard  the  bugle  and  the  battle-shout, 

Obeyed  their  captain's  call  and  felt  as  keen 

The  bullet,  bayonet  and  saber-stroke; 

And  who  shall  say  that,  when  their  spirits  winged 

Their  flight  beyond  the  ken  of   mortal  eye, 

They  went  not  hand  in  hand,  fraternal  joined, 

With  them  who  in  the  flesh  had  been  their  foes? 

Or  who  shall  say  what  these  dumb  mouths  would  speak 

52 


Could  they,  as  erst,  the  heart's  deep  feelings  utter? 

What  keen  regret,  sincere  and  honest  sorrow, 

What  earnest  wish  to  right  their  deeds  of  wrong 

May  not  those  souls  have  felt  when  from  their  sight 

The  mortal  veil  was  lifted  and  they  saw 

Truth,  Justice,  Freedom,  Right,  ranked  with  their  foes, 

Ranked  with  the  country  which  they  would  have  rent, 

Ranked  with  the  millions  whom  they  would  have  kept 

In  bondage,  ignorance  and  brutal  fear! 

Shall  then  our  hearts  deny  to  them  forgiveness 

And  Charity  reach  not  to  them  her  hand, 

To  show  that  Hate  was  buried  with  their  dust 

And  strife  put  in  the  scabbard  with  our  swords? 

Then  strew  upon  their  turf-roofs  pretty  flowers, 

Whose  fragrance  will  to  heaven  bear  our  thoughts, 

And  tell  the  welcome  tale  to  former  foes 

That  Hate  was  buried  deeper  than  their  bones; 

That  wars  are  done  and  strifes  are  sheathed  with  swords; 

That  Charity  has  taken  by  the  hand 

Both  "  Blue"  and  "  Gray"  and  made  them  once  more  brothers; 

That  Love  plucks  flowers  from  forest,  field  and  garden 

To  deck  the  graves  of  former  friend  and  foe; 

That  North  and  South  and  East  and  West  clasp  hands 

And  dance  around  the  pole  of  Liberty, 

From  which  the  Stars  and  Stripes  are  proudly  streaming, 

While  all  the  land  sing  songs  of   Peace  and  Freedom, 

And  nations  look  with  wonder  on  the  scene 

Of   universal  concord  in  that  country 

Where  all  the  people  rule  themselves  discreetly; 

53 


Where  men  are  truly,  now,  born  free  and  equal; 
Where  neither  race  nor  riches,  caste  nor  color, 
Determines  in  the  babe  more  lofty  station 
Nor  wider  scope  to  live,  enjoy  sweet  freedom 
Or  keen  pursue  the  longed-for  happiness; 
For  blackest  Ethiop  is  free  as  Saxon! 


Still  other  graves  there  are,  more  newly  made, 
On  some  of  which  the  grass  has  not  yet  grown; 
And  one  stands  open  at  this  very  hour 
To  coldly  welcome  him  who,  yesterday, 
Wrapped  round  his  chilling  limbs  his  blanket  robe, 
Lay  down  and  closed  his  eyes  and  fell  asleep. 
These  new-made  dwellings  of  the  noble  dead 
Contain  the  forms  of  soldier  veterans 
Who  perished  not  on  bloody  battle-fields, 
But  brought  their  wounds  and  sickened  bodies  home, 
Or  from  the  conflict  'scaped  without  a  scar. 
But  they  as  wholly  offered  to  their  country 
The  priceless,  patriotic  gift  of   life 
As  those  from  whom  that  best  gift  was  accepted. 
For,  side  by  side  with  them  they  stood  in  battle, 
Marched  in  the  rain  or  snow  or  burning  sunshine, 
Paced  up  and  down  the  lonely  beat  on  picket, 
Made  the  cold  earth  their  cot,  the  sky  their  tent-roof; 
And  some  left  arms  and  legs  on  Southern  fields, 
And  some  brought  bullets  home  fixed  in  their  flesh, 
And  some  bore  scars  of  bayonets  and  sabers, 

54 


And  soon  or  later  these  laid  down  the  lives 
Which  they  had  offered  for  their  country's  weal. 
So  on  their  graves  Love  lays  the  same  dear  flowers 
With  which  she  decorates  the  noble  dead 
From  whose  rude  wounds,  upon  the  battle-field, 
The  ruddy  waves  flowed  out  their  latest  tide. 


And  there  are  heroes  yet  alive  and  standing 
About  these  graves  to-day  with  quickened  thoughts, 
Reviewing  hours  when,  with   these  dead,  they  fought 
And  bled  and  met  the  rough  assaults  of  war, 
And  gathered  round  the  camp-fire  telling  tales 
Of  home,  of  peace  and  love,  and  in  the  tents 
Lay  wearily  and  dreamt  the  night  away. 
And  while  the  noble  dead  are  decked  with  flowers 
We  fain  would  give  a  nosegay  to  the  living. 
Take  then  this  rose — our  grateful  heart's  affection  — 
And  this  green  leaf  —  our  lasting  memory 
Of  thy  brave  deeds  for  us  and  for  our  country; 
And  wear  them  on  thy  manly  soldier  bosom 
Until  thy  limbs  grow  chill  and  thou  dost  wrap 
Thy  blanket  robe  around  them  and  lie  down 
And  close  thine  eyes  and  fall  asleep  in  death. 
Then  shalt  thou  bear  upon  thy  soul's  brave  breast 
While  winging  far  thy  first  immortal  flight 
The  love  and  memory  of   human  hearts  — 
A  decoration  nobler  than  proud  kings 
May  lay  upon  their  titled  favorites. 

5,5 


And  when  thy  form  lies  also  in  the  tomb, 

In  single-chambered  home  beneath  the  sod, 

Like  these  thy  mates  who  perished  long  ago, 

Then  men  will  gather  in  the  pleasant  spring-time 

To  strew  with  Love's  sweet  flowers  the  nation's  dead 

In  memory  of  their  virtues  and  their  woes, 

And  of  the  blessings  which  they  bought  for  others 

When  for  their  country's  weal  they  nobly  offered 

Their  lives  and  all  that  mortals  hold   most  dear. 

Thus,  too,  from  generations  yet  unborn 

Will  spring  a  people's  ever  grateful  speech, 

Not  in  the  calculated,  chiseled  words 

On  the  cold   monuments  of  stone   and  brass, 

But  from  these  soldiers'  humble  dwellings'  roofs, 

Thatched  with  the  posies  of  sweet,  blooming  May, 

Which  summers'  suns  of  future  years  will  burn, 

A  fragrant  incense  will  arise  to  heaven 

And  bear  to  the  brave  spirits  of  our  heroes 

The  nation's  love  and  memory  undying. 

April  24,  1886. 


THE  CHURCH  AT  TADOUSAC. 


THE   CHURCH    AT  TADOUSAC. 

FROM  "  KATRINE  AND  ARTHUR." 


Jl   RRIVED  at  Tadousac,  as  is  the  custom 
fn      The  travelers,  debarking,  crossed  the  town 
To  see  the  ancient  church.     Upon  a  height, 

From  which  St.  Lawrence  and  the  Saguenay 

Are  both  in  view,  it  stands,  as  it  has  stood 

For  nearly  thrice  a  century,  'tis  said; 

The  second  temple  in  America 

Erected  to  the  honor  of  Almighty. 

So  small,  yet  dignified;   in  just  proportion 

Of  ste«ple,  choir,  of  nave  and  gallery; 

The  high-backed  pews,  that  hide  the  worshipers; 

The  Host,  amid  the  candles  on  the  altar; 

The  walls,  adorned  with  paintings,  dim  and  cracked 

With  age;   the  crucifix,  which  generations 

Have  bowed  before,  their  hearts  to  heaven  raised, 

Meanwhile,  by  its  dumb  likeness  of  the  Savior, 

Whose  tender  love,  whose  suffering  and  death 

Had  hither  drawn  those  humble  souls,  devout; 

There,  in  that  little,  consecrated  house, 

The  small  beginning  of  a  vast  increase 

59 


Of  sacred  architecture,  Arthur  sat 
And  prayed  for  blessings  on  the  beauteous  maiden 
Whose  heart  (he  knew  not)  had  already  yielded 
Itself  to  him;   and  prayed  that,  somehow,  He 
Would  bring  their  lonely  lives  in  happy  union 
And  make  their  future  sweet  as  was  his  dream. 


When  from  the  little,  holy  house  he  came, 

He  stood  a  moment  on  the  sacred  ground 

Strewn  thick  with  soft  suggestions  of  the  past. 

Behind  the  church,  saw  mounds  of  buried  hopes 

Marked  by  a  stone  engraven  with  a  name; 

There  have  Love's  fires  been  banked  for  Time's  long  night, 

Whose  smoth'ring  coals  will,  in  eternity, 

Be  blown  to  living,  never-dying  blaze 

By  breath  of   Him  who  lighted  first  the  fires. 


There,  centuries  ago,  have  pain  and  sorrow 

Bid  last  farewell  to  sad  and  suff'ring  mortals. 

There,  wrapped  in  clay,  lie  dusty  forms  of  men 

Whose  strength  has  wielded  axe  whose  blows  resounded 

Across  these  rivers,  flowing  then  as  now. 

The  face  of   mortal  beauty  there  was  veiled 

By  priest,  for  separation  long  as  time 

From  those  who  erst  had  loved  to  look  upon  it; 

And  there  her  lips  were  sealed  in  endless  silence. 

60 


In  through  that  door  have  entered  youth  and  maid; 
Before  that  altar  have  their  vows  been  said; 
Upon  her  finger  priest  has  placed  the  ring; 
Gone  all;  these  rivers  now  their  dirges  sing. 

To-day  another  youth,  now  standing  there, 
Another  maid  to  marriage-bed  would  bear; 
Another  priest  another  ring  will  give; 
And  streams  repine  when  these  have  ceased  to  live. 

Thus  moralizing,  Arthur  turned  away 
From  where  his  memories  will  oft  return; 
From  where  began  the  shadows  of  that  day 
Whose  flame  within  his  soul  will  ever  burn. 


THE  BETROTHAL. 


THE     BETROTHAL. 

FROM  "  KATRINE  AND  ARTHUR." 


BESIDE  them  lay  broad  fields  which  gently  fell 
From  either  hand  t'  embrace  a  purling  brook 
That  slow  meandered,  welcome,  in  their  midst; 
And,  at  their  furthest  limit,  rose  abrupt 
(As  one  vast  wave  swells  on  a  steep-sloped  shore) 
Until  they  touched  the  border  of  the  woods 
Which  covered  head  and  shoulders  of   a  hill; 
The  woods,  dark-green,  inviting  to  their  shade; 
The  fields  of  grass  late  mown  and  now  sweet-scented; 
The  fields  of  wheat  and  oats  full  ripe  and  yellow 
Bowing  their  heads  to  their  approaching  fate. 
"This  is  our  farm,"  Katrine  remarked,  "where  often 
We  go  to  frolic  near  the  farm-house  yonder 
Between  the  hills,  or  ramble  in  the  woods, 
Or  build  a  fire  and  roast  the  toothsome  sweet-corn, 
Or  dance  and  sing  and  play  on  our  guitars." 

Beyond  they  wound  between  high  hills,  wood-crowned, 
And  crossed  a  valley  and  again  ascended 
A  hill  by  winding  roads  between  wild  hedges 
Of  shrubs  and  briers  which  half  hid  the  fences. 
The  daisies,  gathered  thick  beside  the  way, 

«6 


Erect  but  modest,  raised  their  full,  frank  eyes 
To  look  upon  the  loving  pair  now  passing. 
The  little  birds  alighted  in  the  bushes 
And  peeped  between  the  leaves  to  see  the  lovers, 
And  sweetly  chirruped  to  them  their  good  wishes; 
And  even  the  four-footed  brutes,  who  lowly 
Incline  their  heads  to  eat  from  humble  table 
Their  frugal  fare,  ceased  grazing  and  looked  up 
And  winked  their  big,  soft  eyes  in  mute  approval. 
All  nature  seemed  in  sympathy  with  them. 
The  winds  were  gentle  and  but  lightly  touched 
Their  faces  and  but  coyly  stirred  the  halo 
Of  yellow  hair  about  her  brow  and  temples. 
Even  the  careless  clouds  above  moved  slowly 
That  they  might  linger  on  the  scene  of  love. 
And  here  they  stopped,  observing  through  a  notch 
Betwixt  the  hills  a  hazy,  dreamy  picture 
Of  towers  and  buildings  backed  by  distant  mountains. 
A  veil  of  purple  air,  spread  over  all, 
Gave  to  the  scene  the  semblance  of  a  vision 
Of  some  strange,  far-off   and  unreal  world. 
Then  in  their  hearts  these  two  beheld  strange  cities, 
With  towers  of  strength  and  walls  of  grace  and  beauty, 
All  covered  with  the  purple  haze  of   glory 
That  hope  e'er  throws  about  her  forms  enchanting; 
And  backed  by  mountains  ever  green,  impassive, 
The  powerful,  shelt'ring  arms  of  the  Almighty. 
In  those  strange  cities  they  in  fancy  dwelt 
In  homes  of  sweet  content,  with  peace  all  furnished, 

66 


Adorned  with  trophies  of  the  world's  success, 
Lighted  and  warmed  alone  by  ardent  Love, 
Which  was  the  setless  sun  of  those  fair  cities 
Where  never  dusk  nor  gloom  of  night  succeeded. 
They  silent  gazed  upon  the  double  scene 
Till  Arthur  gently  bade  the  horses  on; 
And  for  a  time  their  speech  was  soft  and  low, 
As  if  they  would  disturb  by  louder  tones 
The  sweet  vibrations  of  their  inmost  souls. 
As  slow  the  horses  further  climbed  the  hill 
(For  they  seemed  now  to  understand  the  wish 
Of  them  they  bore)  the  lovers  sudden  turned, 
An  instant  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
And  read  there  tales  their  words  could  ne'er  express. 
Down  in  that  well  of   azure  Arthur  peered 
So  far  beyond  the  beauteous  circling  brim 
That  opened  wide  and  let  him  freely  see 
The  pure,  clear  fountain  deep  as  thought  could  pierce 
(The  depths  unsullied  of  the  maiden's  soul), 
So  pure  and  clear — itself  a  radiant  source 
Of  light  that  oft  had  welled  up  to  the  brim 
And  flashed  its  beauty  to  another  eye, 
But  never  had  the  fount  itself  been  seen; 
And  never  more  shall  those  blue  brims  dilate 
And  show  to  Arthur's  gaze  the  crystal  waters 
In  which  he  then  beheld  himself  reflected. 
Henceforth  sweet  Memory  alone  may  show 
The  wondrous  vision  he  that  moment  saw. 
The  soul  is  not  laid  bare  by  one's  volition; 

67 


It  does  not  answer  to  another's  summons, 

Or  stern  command,  or  soft  and  sweet  petition; 

But  if  it  ever  show  its  naked  self 

Unto  another  it  is  when,  unconscious, 

Rapt  in  sweet  contemplation,  unawares 

It  opes  the  door  that  it  may  better  see, 

And  finds,  surprised,  an  eager,  watchful  eye; 

Then  quickly  shuts  nor  henceforth  opes  the  door. 


On,  circling,  slow  ascending,  still  they  passed, 
The  sweet  thoughts  crowding  thicker  in  their  hearts 
That  even  now  seemed  bursting  with  the  flood 
They  could  not  hold,  nor  would  prevent  from  coming. 
Nor  scarce  could  Arthur  now  restrain  his  arms 
From  clasping  to  his  heart  the  maid  bewitching 
Who  sat  beside  him.      On  her  happy  head 
A  broad-brimmed  hat,  trimmed  with  a  bunch  of   roses 
And  roll  of  soft,  blue  mull.       A  white,  thin  garment 
But  slight  obscured  the  sky-blue  dress  beneath, 
Save  on  her  arms,  where  through  its  thin  disguise 
Appeared  the  faint  pink  glow  of   nature's  tinting. 
Her  small,  white  hands  played  with  some  flowers  which  Arthur 
Had  gathered  by  the  way;   and  oftentimes 
She  raised  the  half-hid  face  up  to  his  view, 
Set  in  a  golden  haze  of  flowing  hair 
And  tinted  on  its  cheeks  to  match  the  roses 
Upon  her  hat;   and  from  her  azure  eyes 
Threw  glances  innocent  and  frank  and  merry, 

68 


But  fraught  with  tenderest  love,  full  in  his  own; 

And  parted  in  sweet  smile  the  bright-red  lips, 

A  smile  that  ran  across  her  glowing  cheeks 

And  sought  to  hide  itself  within  her  dimples. 

Still  on  by  fields  all  overgrown  with  shrubs, 

By  fields  of  corn,  by  fields  of  yellow  grain 

Now  falling  fast  before  the  noisy  reaper 

Loud  clattering  in  the  ears  of  trembling  stalks 

The  warning  of   their  swift-approaching  doom. 

At  last  they  enter  through  the  high-arched  gateway 

And,  skirting  round  the  vaults  of  human  husks 

Now  empty  and   returning  dust  to  dust, 

They  come  upon  a  charming  woodland  way, 

Which  they  pursue  around  the  mountain's  brow. 

Upon  one  side  the  woods  slope  to  its  summit 

And  on  the  other  fall  down  to  the  stream 

That  flows  about  its  base.      Half   round  the  mountain 

The  leafy-shaded  way  abruptly  ends; 

But  ere  that  point  is  reached  a  hillock  rises 

Upon  the  mountain's  side,  wood-covered,  steep; 

And  there  the  road  expands  into  a  circle, 

Within  whose  center  stands  a  lone  pine  tree. 

Here  Arthur  stopped,  and  to  the  inviting  tree 

Made  fast  the  equine  pair  and  left  the  two 

To  ruminate  beneath  its  grateful  shade; 

Then  with  Katrine  he  climbed  the  little  hill. 

Upon  its  brow  she  sat,  where,  looking  down 

Between  the  trees,  the  flowing  stream  appeared 

And  glimpses  of  the  farms  upon  its  shore, 

69 


And  to  their  ears  rose  sounds  of  husbandry, 
A  farmer's  rude  dictating  to  his  oxen, 
A  mother's  shrill,  sharp  calling  to  her  offspring, 
And  shouts  of  children  playing  on  the  bank; 
And  in  between  these  sounds  a  sweet  refrain, 
The  stream's  soft  argument  with  some  strong  rocks 
That  stubbornly  intruded  them  upon  it. 
And  Arthur,  glad  reclining  at  her  feet, 
Looked  up  into  her  face  and  was  content, 
And  would  have  welcomed  the  Almighty's  sentence, 
"Thus  shall  it  ever  be  with  thee  and  her!" 
But  the  pulsations  of  his  heart  assured  him 
That  time  was  speeding  and  the  sweet  hour  passing 
In  which  he  might  remain  there  with  Katrine. 
And  now  his  words  are  plain,  for  he  would  know 
In  words  as  plain  her  answer  to  his  love. 
He  tells  her  of  his  life,  his  present  prospects, 
His  future  hopes,  nor  pictures  half   so  fair 
As  to  his  sanguine  mind  appears  that  future. 
He  bids  her  think  upon  her  present  life 
Of  peace  and  plenty,  love  and  luxury, 
And  of   the  prospects  fair  and  promises 
Of  her  own  future  —  not  regarding  him  — 
For  high  above  his  present  selfish  hopes, 
His  pleasing  dreams  of  happiness  with  her, 
His  wish  supreme  is  that  her  life  shall  be 
Supremely  happy,  or  with  him  or   no. 
Then  answered  she  in  words  as  frank  as  his 
And  told  him  that  her  life  was  fair  and  happy, 

70 


That  she  was  loved  and  had  sweet  friends  about  her, 

That  she  had  ample  of  the  world's  possessions; 

But  that  since  she  had  known  him,  in  her  thoughts 

Her  future  happiness  with   him  was  linked, 

Though  but  in  hope  till  now;   but  now  so  strong, 

Nor  loving  friends,  nor  home,  nor  luxury, 

Nor  aught  should  e'er  divert  her  love  from  him, 

Nor  in  her  contemplation  separate 

Her  longed-for  future  happiness  and  him. 

Then  Arthur  drew  him  close  beside  Katrine, 

Encircled  in  his  arms  her  sky-blue  waist 

And  kissed  her  pretty  neck  and  rosy  cheek, 

And  whispered  in  her  ear  such  tender  words 

As  to  the  curious,  listening  birds  about  him 

He  would  deny;   but  from  their  prying  eyes 

He  could  not  hide,  nor  from  the  gaze  of  squirrel 

High  perched  upon  a  bough,  his  bushy  tail 

Bent  forward  on  his  back,  now  barking  at  them. 


Thus  on  the  hillock  bound  these  two  their  hearts 
In  sweet  betrothal,  while  the  birds  looked  on, 
And  from  his  perch  the  squirrel  gazed  and  scolded, 
And  from  the  farms,  far  down  the  mountain,  rose 
The  shouts  of  children  and  the  swain's  rude  tones, 
And  from   the  stream  its  murmurs  of  reproach 
Against  the  rocks,  while  back  of  them  the  horses 
Stood  patiently  and  waited  for  their  coming, 
Beside  the  pine  tree  in  its  grateful  shade; 

71 


While  Arthur,   lowly  stretched  beside  Katrine, 
Held  her  blue  waist  and  kissed  her  neck  and  cheek, 
While  she  plucked  from  a  little   neighboring  bush 
Its  tender  leaves  and  tore  them  into  shreds, 
While  all  the  trees  around  them  stood  in  silence, 
And  over  them   the  careless  clouds  moved  slowly, 
And  softly  on  their  faces  blew  the  south-wind. 


LOVE  SONGS. 


A  LOVER'S  FAREWELL. 


Farewell,  sweet  Friend! 
The  few,  short  days  of   joy  are  gone 

Which  thou  hast  lately  granted  me; 
And  I,  unhappy,  left  alone 

With  only  memories  of  thee. 

Farewell,  sweet  Love! 
In  all  the  dreary  hours  until 

I  shall  behold  thy  face  again, 
Thine  eyes,  thy  breath,  thy  kisses  still 

Will  haunt  my  heart  and  soothe  its  pain. 

Farewell,  my   sweet,  sweet  Heart,  farewell! 
Oh!  hateful  word  that  breaks  the  spell 
Of   lips  that  touch,  of    hearts  that  love, 
Of    arms  entwined — Oh!  strength  of  Jove, 
Destroy  that  fateful  word  and  seal 
Our  lives  in  one  eternal  weal! 

And  yet — I  bid  thee — Sweet  —  farewell! 
September  ig,  1885. 


"MY  LOVE  HAD  GONE." 


I  went  into  the  cheerful  home 
Where  erst  my  Love  did  dwell. 

I  thought  to  hear  her  footstep  come 
Or  merry  voice  her  presence  tell; 

But  all  was  silent.      Then  there  fell 
Upon  my  heart  a  heavy  cloud; 

My  Love  had  gone!      I  knew  it  well. 
My  soul  within  me  cried  aloud. 

0  why  must  I  from  her  be  kept 
Whose  love  and  lips  are  all  my  joy? 

If  she  but  on  my  bosom  slept 

No  earthly  care  would  e'er  annoy. 

Then  come  again,  my  loving  Heart! 

And  do  not  from  me  ever  stray. 
Let  not  your  lips  from  mine  depart; 

My  arms  shall  still  about  you  stay. 
*  *  *  * 

1  go  into  the  dreary  home 
Where  erst  my  Love  did  dwell; 

I  do  not  hear  her  footstep  come, 
Nor  merry  voice  her  presence  tell. 

September  21,  1885. 

76 


-THE  SOUTH -WIND,  SOFT." 


The  south-wind,  soft,  from  o'er  the  sea 
Is  not  so  fresh  and  pure  a  draught 

As  thy  sweet  breath,  that  came  to  me 
When,  Love,  at  thy  dear  lips  I  quaffed. 

The  south-wind,  soft,  so  gently  plays 
Upon  my  cheeks  and  temples  now; 

It  minds  me,  darling,  of  the  days 

When  thy  soft  fingers  touched  my  brow. 

But  sweetest  thought  of  all  it  brings — 
Seen  only  by  the  slender  moon, 

Thy  lips  kissed  mine  (the  memory  clings); 
O  softest  touch  —  but  gone  so  soon. 

Now  dream  I  on  of  later  grace, 

Of  other  joy  (most  precious  boon!) 

Lips,  hearts  and  all  in  warm  embrace, 
Not  even  seen  by  slender   moon. 

*  #  *  * 

The  golden  orb,  thin  veiled  by  cloud, 
Is  hanging  in  the  western  sky; 

A  light  as  bright  and  ardent  glowed 
Upon  my  soul  in  days  gone  by. 

77 


My  Light  is  hid,  and  through  Love's  night 
I'm  lonely  waiting  till  she  rise; 

Her  who  alone  is  my  delight 

I'm  watching  for  in  eastern  skies. 


The  south-wind,  soft,  from  o'er  the  sea 
Falls  gently,  sweetly  on  me  now 

While  I  am  waiting,  Love,  for  thee 
And  thy  soft  hand  to  press  my  brow. 
September  ^7,  1885. 


THE  CLOUD  AND  FIELD. 


Virginia!   with  the  love-lit  eyes 

That  look  so  sweetly  into  mine, 
From  which  the  dart  of   Cupid  flies 

Directly  back  again  to  thine. 

Thus,  darling,  we  each  other  wound 
And  one  to  other  gives  sweet  pain; 

More  sweet  and  welcome  than  to  ground 
Are  softest  strokes  of  gentle  rain. 

I  am  a  field,  a  cloud  thou  art, 

(I  would  that  Field  and  Cloud  were  nearer!) 
While  dear  thy  rain  falls  on  my  heart, 

Thy  own  soft  pressure  would  be  dearer. 

If  but  I  were  a  mountain  now, 

Then  thou  wouldst  come,  embrace  my  form, 
Soft  stroke  my  face,  sweet  kiss  my  brow, 

And  shower  Love's  darts  in  gentle  storm. 

O,  dearest,  would  it  not  be  sweet 
If  we  could  thus  each  other  greet? 

A  field  cannot  to  mountain  grow, 

But  swift-winged  cloud  its  love  may  show. 

79 


Just  think,  Virginia,  if  you  will, 
A  mountain 's  but  a  greater  hill, 

A  hill  is  only  larger  mound, 

And  fields  have  mounds  set  all  around. 

Could  not  you  then,  Virginia,  dear, 
Come  to  the  Field  its  heart  to  cheer? 

Come!    as  a  dew — a  fog — but  come! 
And  make  my  mouth  with  kisses  dumb! 

Now  Cloud  may  on  these  love-lines  fall 
When  I  have  writ  myself 

Thy 

PAUL. 

Christmas  Eve,  1883. 


"FOR  VIRGINIA'S  SAKE." 


The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  evening  star 
Peeped  drowsily  upon  the  hills  and  lake; 

We  looked  together  on  the  scene  afar — 
I  loved  it  most  for  my  Virginia's  sake. 

Fast  paled  the  golden  light  along  the  west, 
As  fast  we  saw  a  thousand  stars  awake; 

Dark  grew  the  hills,  the  wee  bird  sought  its  nest- 
I  loved  the  gloaming  for  Virginia's  sake. 

We  wandered  on;   too  fast,  the  hill,  descended; 

Too  soon  the  lamp-light  on  our  sight  did  break, 
And,  too,  too  soon  had  our  sweet  journey  ended — 

I  was  most  sorry  for  Virginia's  sake. 


My  sun  has  set;    my  hills  and  dales  in  gloom 

Are  wrapped ;  my  birds  are  sleeping,  ne'er  to  wake ; 

My  gloaming  but  some  kindly  stars  illume — 
Ah! — night!  —  I'm  sorry — for  Virginia's  sake. 


"I  WONDER  IF  SHE  KNOWS." 


I  wonder  if   she  knows 

How  oft  my  thoughts  have  turned 
(As  Moslem,  while  he  prays, 
Toward  Mecca  bends  his  gaze) 
Toward  her,  while  my  soul  yearned 
For  one  sweet  look  that  in  her  dear  eyes  glows- 
I  wonder  if  she  knows. 


I  wonder  if  she  knows 

How  long  the  moments  seem 
Since  yestermorn  she  left 
My  soul  so  sore  bereft 
(As,  waking  from  a  dream 

Of  bliss,  the  heart  but  sad  and  sadder  grows)— 
I  wonder  if  she  knows. 

I  wonder  if  she  knows 

How  sweet  the  roses  smell 
On  which,  so  far  away, 
She  looked  but  yesterday 
And  o'er  them  breathed  a  spell 
That  to  my  restless  soul  brings  sweet  repose — 
I  wonder  if  she  knows. 

82 


I  wonder  if  she  knows 

How  glad  my  heart  will  be 
When  in  my  arms  once  more 
I  fold  her  as  of   yore 
And  in  her  dear  eyes  see 

The  love  that  to  me  like  a  clear  brook  flows 

I  hope  —  I  think  she   knows! 


AN  OCTOBER  IDYL. 


*     *     I  would  thou  hadst  not  left  me! 
Although  I  do  not  know  thy  name, 
Nor  e'er  before  had  seen  thy  face, 
I  miss  thy  sweetness   and  thy  grace, 
I  miss  thy  love-look — all  the  same 
As  if  of  friend  fate  had  bereft  me. 


Art  thou  not  thinking,  too,  of   him 
To  whom  thou  waved  a  last  adieu 
Ere  from  the  pier  thou  turned  away 
To  stroll,  on  this  October  day, 
Through  the  bright  woods,  'neath  sky  of   blue, 
While  squirrels  spring  from  limb  to  limb? 


I  sit  beside  thy  empty  chair 

And  look  back  on  the  brilliant  wood 
Where  thou  art  treading  on  dead  leaves 
While  my  lone  spirit  silent  grieves. 
(That  sullen  plash  bodes  me  no  good; 
A  haze  is  round  me  everywhere.) 

84 


A  white  gull  from  the  water  springs 

And  wings  his  rapid  flight  toward  thee; 
More  rapid  flies  my  jealous  love 
And  wantons  round  thee  in  the  grove, 
Peers  at  thee  from  behind  a  tree 
And  in  thine  ear  a  love-song  sings. 


I  cannot  think  that  thou  dost  feel 

The  lonely  pang  that  stabs  my  heart, 
And  yet  it  would  be  sweet  to  know 
That  thou  dost  love  me  even  so 
And  didst  regret  that  we  should  part 
Ere  that  we  might  our  love  reveal. 


If  it  shall  be  that  once  again 
We  on  this  lake  together  ride, 
I'll  sing  to  thee  a  little  lay 
About  a  sweet  October  day, 
While  I  am  sitting  by  thy  side  — 
And  thou  wilt  know  me  better  then. 

On  the  "•Hiawatha,"   Chautauqua  Lake, 
October  at,  1886. 


"IS  IT  STRANGE  THAT  I  SHOULD  LOVE  YOU?" 


Is  it  strange  that  1  should  love  you? 

All  these  many  days, 

By  your  gentle  ways, 
In  my  web  of  thought  you  have  been  weaving 

Silken  threads  of  softness  rare  and  beauty 

(While  my  fingers  trembled  in  their  duty), 
Which  my  fancy  formed  in  pictures  past  believing. 

Is  it  strange  that  I  should  love  you? 

With  your  tender  eyes, 

Whence  Love's  arrow  flies, 
Mine  with  softest  strokes  you  have  been  pelting; 

And  when  once  from  yours  there  rushed  a  river 

Quick  I  felt  my  frame  responsive  quiver 
As  my  soul  in  sympathy  your  tears  were  melting. 

Is  it  strange  that  I  should  love  you? 

When  your  sweet  voice  spoke 

In  my  heart  awoke 
Chords  that  only  Love's  dear  tones  vibrate; 

My  rapt  soul  their  dulcet  music  noting, 

Seemed  on  amorous,  airy  wavelets  floating. 
Can  you  blame  me  that  I  welcomed  such  a  fate? 

86 


Is  it  wrong  that  I  should  love  you? 

True,  you  are  not  mine, 

Nor  can  I  be  thine, 
Yet  I  cannot  think  it  really  sin 

That,  unbid,  my  soul  to  yours  went  speeding, 

Drawn  by  that  which  satisfies  its  needing; 
If  'twas  sin  I'll  never  wish  it  had  not  been. 


TO   VIRGINIA. 


Virginia!   with  the  merry   laugh, 
Whose  echoes  in  my  memory  live; 

And  lips  at  which  I  fain  would  quaff, 
As  erst,  the  sweets  they  only  give. 


Virginia!    with  the  golden  tresses 

That  fall,  luxuriant,  on  her  shoulders; 

And  arms  that  give  such  dear  caresses, 

And  eyes  in  which  Love's  hot  fire  smoulders. 


I  would  to-night  those  sweet  eyes  see; 

Those  dear  arms  feel  and  stroke  those  tresses; 
And  hear  thy  laugh  ring  merrily, 

And  on  my  own  feel  thy  lips'  presses! 

December  31  f  1885. 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


TO  MY  FATHER, 

ON  THE  COMPLETION  OF  His  NINETIETH  YEAR. 


Dear  Father!  Thou  hast  lived  a  score 
Beyond  the  three  score  years  and  ten 
Which  round  the  little  lives  of  men 

Whose  strength  is  but  the  common  store. 

And  even  yet  thine  eye  is  bright, 

Thine  ear  alert,  thy  taste  acute, 

And  all  thy  senses  such  as  suit 
At  three  score,  and  thy  step  as  light. 

And  so  to-day  I  fain  would  sing 
Of  thy  long  life  in  grateful  praise 
To  Him  who  giveth  length  of   days, 

And  strength,  and  health,  and  each  good  thing. 

And  I  would  scan  thy  long  life  o'er 
As,  standing  by  an  ancient  tree, 
I  seem  through  all  the  years  to  see 

While  it  has  grown  from  more  to  more. 

I  see  the  spot  beneath  the  hill 
Where,  ninety  years  ago  to-day, 
The  little,  new-born  man-child  lay, 

Whose  voice,  begun  then,  echoes  still. 

91 


The  house  is  gone,  and,  in  its  place, 

A  newer  home  new  hearts  contains; 

There  newer  mother  bears  her  pains 
And  smiles  upon  her  infant's  face. 

I  see  the  old  log-house,  where  thou 

Didst,  restless,  con  thy  lessons  o'er; 

And  swung  thy  feet  above  the  floor, 
While  all  thy  thoughts  were  of   the  Now. 

And  that  long,  rocky  slope  appears 

Athwart  which  thou  hurled  stones  at  night 
And  woke  those  trains  of  flashes  bright 

Whose  gleams  have  pierced  through  all  these  years. 

And,  too,  that  later  school-room,  when 
Thy  harder  tasks  were  patient  wrought; 
I  ween  more  patient  since  thou  got 

A  glance  from  Rachel  now  and  then. 

And  still  another  room  I  see 

Where  thou,  as  master,  held  the  rule, 
Kind  master  of  the  village  school 

And  master  of  the  rule  of  three. 

Yon  fields,  once  wild,  thy  hands  subdued; 
There,  streams  where  oft  the  speckled  trout 
Thy  hook  ensnared;   those  woods  about, 

Where  thou  the  dappled  deer  pursued. 

92 


The  weather-beaten  house  still  stands 

Where  thou  thy  first  love  wooed  and  wed. 
The  nuptial  blessings  scarce  were  said 

When  Death  upon  her  laid  his  hands. 

The  grave  is  old  where  she  was  laid, 
The  stone  is  worn  that  bears  her  name, 
But  in  thy  heart  is  still  the  same 

Fresh  image  of  the  winsome  maid. 

Two  other  graves,  one  overgrown 
These  forty  years,  and  one  yet  bare, 
Thy  later  joys  and  griefs  declare  — 

Thrice  mated  and  thrice  left  alone. 

I  see  thee  as  I  first  recall 

Thy  features,  when  my  childish  dream, 
Asleep  or  waking,  made  it  seem 

That  God  was  like  thee  all  in  all. 

Thy  life  has  ever  quiet  been; 

Content  to  labor  with  thy  might 

And  chiefly  careful  to  be  right, 
Unselfish,  just  and  pure  within. 

I  cannot  sing  thy  wealth  or  fame, 

Of  place  or  power  which  thou  hast  held; 
But  in  this  couplet  I  would  weld 

Truth,  faith  and  goodness  to  thy  name. 

93 


And  when  thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest 
Not  less  shall  be  men's  comments  than 
"  There  lies  in  all  respects  a  man, 

Whom  they  loved  most  who  knew  him  best." 

One  parting  prayer  my  Muse  would  say: 
God  grant  that  many  autumns  more 
Thy  feet  shall  tread  the  hither  shore 

Ere  from  our  sight  thou  wend  thy  way. 

October  ig,  1888. 


UNMANLY  DEVOTION."* 


Unmanly  to  forgive!      If  you  had  said 

Unwomanly  I  might  have  held  my  peace; 

For  when  her  sister  has  been  seen  to  fall 

From  virtue's  beauteous  and  exalted  paths 

Down  to  the  meaner,  rougher  ways  of  life, 

On  which  so  many  trudge  with  aching  hearts 

And  shame-hid  faces,  weary  of  the  world 

Of  sin  and  sorrow  which  they  there  behold, 

How  seldom  from  the  upper,  purer  paths 

Is  reached  a  woman's  hand  to  help  her  back, 

To  lift  her  from  the  ways  that  ever  downward 

Pursue  their  evil  course  to  end  in  hell! 

Unmanly  so  to  love  his  wife,  the  mother 

Of  his  sweet  babe!   that,  when  she  did  forget 

Her  vows  of  constancy  and  his  devotion 

And  left  her  faithful  spouse  and  tender  child, 

Lured  by  the  blandishments  of  wealth  and  pleasure, 

And  found  a  goal  of   poverty,  remorse 

And  lonely  sickness,  leading  her  to  death, 

He  still  kept  in  his  heart  sweet  thoughts  of  her 

And,  when  he  learned  that  she  was  dying,  hastened 

To  kiss  the  dew  of  death  from  off  her  forehead 


*  President   Cleveland's  sister  used   this  expression  in  criticising   the   love  of  "Ostler  Joe,' 
while  endeavoring  to  dissuade  Mrs.  James  Brown  Potter  from  again  reciting  that  poem. 

95 


And  lay  her  weary  head  upon  his  breast 
And  whisper  in  her  ear  his  dear  forgiveness. 

Unwomanly  perhaps!   and,  if  unmanly, 

The  more  the  shame!      Pray,  is  it  base,  ignoble, 

In  man  or  woman,  to  be  like  that  One 

Who  kindly  chid,  "Go,  woman,  sin  no  more," 

Who  deemed  it  not  pollution  that  the  sinner 

Washed  with  her  tears  His  feet  and  on  Him  poured 

The  precious  ointment,  her  best  offering; 

Or  dost  thou  think  it  truly  noble,  manly, 

To  loathe  the  sinner  equal  with  the  sin? 

O  Pharisaic  woman,   who  would  have 

A  heaven  but  for  such  as  thou  alone! 

Go,  hide  thy  frigid,  barren  breast,  on  which 

No  manly  man  may  look  save  with  reproach! 

Nor  seek  to  drown  thy  sister's  voice  that  tells 

A  tale  of  love,  a  story  of  forgiveness, 

Of  one  poor,  humble  man  who  loved  his  wife 

As  God  loves  sinners;   and  who  pardoned  her 

As  some  day  you  will  wish  to  be  forgiven! 

April  3,  1886. 


THANKSGIVING. 


A  nation  sits  to-day  in  thankful  frame 

Round  tables  laden  with  the  harvest's  yield; 

A  nation  pays  its  homage  to  His  name 

Whose  loving  care  brought  fruitage  to  the  field. 


Upon  the  fresh-turned  earth  men  scattered  seeds, 
Which  lay  through  barren  winter  'neath  the  snow. 

Thus  sown  in  simple  faith,  the  worthiest  deeds 
Oft  long  lie  buried  ere  they  fruitful  grow. 

The  vernal  showers,  the  vernal  sunshine  came, 
The  seeds  sprang  into  stalks  upon  the  mold; 

And  summer's  fertile  rains  and  ardent  flame 

Filled  the  stalks'  heads  and  turned  their  green  to  gold. 

So  grew  men's  loving  thoughts,  men's  virtuous  deeds, 
When  on  them  fell  the  gracious  smile  of    God; 

Love  bore  a  crop  of   love  for  all  men's  needs, 
Virtues  lie  thick  and  green  as  autumn's  sod. 

Yet,  midst  the  worthy  wheat  grew  some  wild  tares; 
Midst  virtues,  vices;   and  with  good,  some  ill; 
97 


Sorrows  with  joys — God  answered  not  all  prayers; 
But  he  is  good,  and  men  are  thankful  still. 


Garners  are  pregnant  with  the  ripened  grain; 

Peace  walks  with  Plenty,  Love  looks  from  each  face; 
And  grateful  hearts  within  the  sacred   fane 

Pi-aise  the  good  Giver  of  this  ample  grace. 

And  each  man,  happy,  in  his  home  sits  down 
To  eat  and  drink  his  well-provided  cheer; 

And  in  his  heart  content  and  comfort  crown 
The  thousand  blessings  of   the  fruitful  year. 

November,  1886. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 
AFTER  VISITING  HER  SICK  PET  DOG. 


I  am  anxious  to  quiet  the  fears  of  your  heart, 
Which,  I  fancy,  is  still,  as  it  was,  all  agog; 

And  yet  I  must  say,  to  be  frank  on  my  part, 
I  found  our  poor  patient  "  as  sick  as  a  dog." 

However,  as  singular  as  it  may  seem, 

I  was  met  by  a  growl,  e'en  before  I  addressed  him; 
Which  gave  me  of  hope,  not  a  ray,  but  a  beam 

That  curable  was  the  disease  that  distressed  him: 

For  patients  who  growl  are  the  kind  that  affirm, 
When  the  gods  have  invited  them  into  their  mill 

To  be  ground  very  fine,  and  all  that  (if  the  term 

You  will  pardon),  that  they'll  "be  doggoned  if  they  will." 

And  so  I  am  ready  to-night  to  opine 

(Though  of  course  it  is  true  we  are  all  in  the  dark) 
That,  by  aid  of  the  spirit  and  beef  and  quinine, 

We  will  quickly  determine  the  virtue  of   bark. 

Now,  if  you  should  observe  that  the  dog  wags  his  tail 
You  will  know  that  his  sickness  won't  last  very  long. 

On  the  contrary,  if   the  reverse  should  prevail 

'T  would  imply  that  the  former  was  not  very  strong. 

99 


Thus  briefly  discussing  the  symptomatology, 
Prognosis  and  treatment  of  poor  little  Max, 

It  remains  that  I  sing,  as  it  were,  his  dogs(x)ology  — 
In  terraque  salus,  in  coeloque  pax! 

January  10,  1886, 


A  FLIRTATION. 

One  beautiful  day,  by  the  murmuring  sea, 

Sat  a  youth  all  alone,  all  alone  was  he; 

And  he  listlessly  peered  'neath  the  brim  of  his  hat 

At  a  pair  of   brown  eyes  and  a  face,  and  all  that. 

And  the  eyes  peered  at  him  and  the  face  softly  smiled, 
Till  his  heart  by  the  glances  and  smiles  was  beguiled 
From  its  lonely,  contemplative,  regular  action 
To  a  thumping  desire  to  approach  the  attraction. 

And  the  heart  of  the  maiden  beat  faster  and  stronger 
As  glances  repeated  and  shadows  grew  longer, 
Until  mutual  impulse  brought  both  to  their  feet 
And  impelled  them  to  seek  a  convenient  retreat, 

Where,  free   from  suspicion  and  rude  observation, 
Two  strangers  might  join  in  a  wished  conversation; 
And  so  this  fair  maid  and  the  youth  with  the  hat 
Indulged  a  brief  hour  in  agreeable  chat. 

They  talked  about  this  and  they  talked  about  that, 
They  gazed  at  the  bathers,  some  lean  and  some  fat, 
And  they  looked  at  each  other  and  thought  vastly  more 
Than  they  spoke  while  they  sat  there  upon  the  sea's  shore. 

101 


And  the  waves  ebbed  and  flowed,  and  the  moments  too  soon 
Took  their  leave,  without  license,  that  sweet  afternoon; 
And  to-night  there  remains,  to  distinguish  that  day, 
Only  memories  —  and  a  dear,  little  blue  spray. 

February  12,  1886. 


IDEAL  AND  REAL. 

O  tell  me  not  that  I  shall  find, 
In  pleasing  image  of   the  mind, 
More  joy  than  I  shall  ever  see 
In  all  the  sweet  reality! 

"Pis  very  sweet  to  think,  I  trow, 
Of  that  supreme,  ecstatic  bliss, 
But  I  will  aye  prefer  to  know 
The  real,  spicy,  soft,  sweet  kiss! 


"  MY  FLOWERS  ARE  FADING." 


My  flowers  are  fading,  and  their  fragrance  sweet 
Is  changing  to  a  rank  and  noisome  smell; 
So  mortal  beauty  fades,  Time's  baleful  spell 

Brings,  soon  or  late,  all  fair  beneath  our  feet. 

My  flowers  are  dead.       So  must  all  mortal  die; 
And,  grown  offensive,  foul,  be  cast  away. 
Ye  beautiful  and  fair!      Be  proud  to-day; 
With  my  dead  flowers  to-morrow  ye  may  lie! 


TO  A  FERN, 

PLUCKED  ON  THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  RAVEN. 


Thou  little  Fern!      On  yon  high  mountain's  top, 
Most  wondrously  curled  in  a  little  ball, 
Thou  lay  concealed  beneath  the  ling'ring  snow 
Until  the  vernal  Sun  crept  in  thy  bed 
And  woke  thee  with  his  hot  and  lusty  stare; 
And  smiled  to  see  thee  drowsily  stretch  out 
Thy  tiny  form;   and  came  again  next  day 
And  kissed  thee,  whisp'ring  ardent  hopes  of   days 
To  come  when  he  and  thou  would  revel  there 
With  summer  breezes  and  soft,  fleecy  clouds 
That  oft  would  stop  a  moment  on  their  way 
To  toy  with  thee  and  thy  aspiring  mates. 
Then,  with  his  occult  art,  he  deftly  brewed, 
From  the  clouds'  kisses  and  the  morning  dew, 
The  rocks  and  the  rough  mold  to  which  thou  clung, 
A  dainty  liquor,  which  thou  gladly  drank 
And  wast  refreshed  thereby,  and  daily  strengthened 
To  meet  the  rude  assaults  of  pelting  rains 
And  careless,  violent  winds  and  raging  tempests 
And  chill,  depressing  gloom  of   moonless  nights. 
Henceforth  from  day  to  day  thy  courage  grew, 
And  strength,  but  not  thy  form,  for  thou  art  like 
Thy  ancestors,  in  stature  small,  yet  proud; 

105 


And  more  ambitious  than  thy  grosser  kindred, 

Who  are  content  to  live  their  little  lives 

Secluded  in  some  low,  damp,  shaded  place 

Where  e'en  the  universal  friend  of  life, 

The  Sun,  may  find  no  chance  to  smile  upon  them, 

Where  they  may  see  but  their  own  selfish  selves, 

The  shrubs  that  hide  them,  and  their  dank  earth-bed. 

But  thou  aspired  to  lofty  pinnacle, 

The  mountain's  summit,  whence  thy  vision  swept 

O'er  lake  and  stream  and  plain  and  lesser  mountains 

Far  as  the  human  eye  may  scan  the  earth; 

Where,  too,  thou  didst  at  night  behold  the  stars, 

Their  bright  eyes  blinking  at  thee  as  they  moved 

Across  the  placid  heaven;   and  the  moon 

E'er  changing,  whose  white  beams,  so  many  nights, 

Made  thy  lone  hours  less  lonely.      In  the  morn 

Thou  early  didst  awake  to  see  the  glorious 

Appearing  of   the  sun;  and  watched,  reluctant, 

Yet  with  delight,  his  marvelous  disrobing. 

Upon  the  clouds  he  hangs  his  garments,  dyed 

So  rarely,  many  hued,  which,  donned  at  morn, 

Comprise  his  wondrous,  brilliant  robe  of   light; 

Then  sinks  to  sleep  upon  the  western  sea. 


Yes,  thou  wee  one!   'twas  thy  sublime  ambition, 
Thy  self-complacency  where  I  felt  fear, 
Thy  courage  and  thy  hardihood,  thy  love 
Of  all  the  grand  and  beautiful  and  awful 

106 


Around  thee  —  these  it  was  so  drew  my  heart 

To  thee  when  with  my  two  sweet  maiden  guides 

I  stood  beside  thee  on  that  mountain's  top 

And,  rapt,  scanned  all  the  wide  horizon  round. 

Therefore  I  plucked  thee  and,  upon  my  heart, 

Bore  thee  away  to  my  abode,  where  daily 

Thou  mindest  me  of  that  rare  hour  we  met. 

Ah,  me!   thy  limbs  are  stiff   with  so  long  lying 

On  my  hard  desk. —  I  fear  much  thou  art  dead! 

Well!   well!   we  all  must  die  —  but  where's  thy  spirit? 

It  was  thy  spirit  touched  me  on  the  mountain; 

It  is  thy  spirit  that  provokes  these  words. 

Has  it  gone  back  to  hover  o'er  that  summit 

Which  it  called  home?     To-night  around  my  casements 

Mad  winds  are  howling  and  the  rain  is  pelting. 

On  Raven's  height  more  fierce  the  storm  is  raging; 

And  in  its  midst  thou  sprite,  I  wis,  art  clinging 

To  that  great  rock  on  which  we  stood  together. 

A  Dieu!   brave  little  soul!      I'll  ne'er  forget  thee. 

Would  all  thy  betters  were  as  nobly  fashioned! 

November  to,  i8qz. 


"  WERE  THESE,  MY  DEAD,  ALIVE." 


Were  these,  my  dead,  alive  I  would  not  now 
Be  lying,  lonely,  sad  and  broken-hearted 
Upon  this  turf,  where  I  so  lately  parted, 

With  a  last  kiss  upon  each  pallid  brow, 

From  the  dear  forms  which,  erst,  in  purest  joy 
I  pressed  to  my  fond  heart,  while  soft  their  arms 
Entwined  about  my  neck  and  their  sweet  charms 

Obscured  my  woes,  and  cares  ceased  to  annoy. 

Were  these,  my  dead,  alive  I  would  not  be, 

With  mine,  augmenting  Heaven's  tears  now  weeping 
Upon  this  city-full  eternal  sleeping  — 

Tears  that  keep  green  their  turf  and  memory. 

Were  these,  my  dead,  alive  I  would  to-day 
(While  Heaven  weeps  upon  this  quiet  city, 
In  loving  sympathy  and  tender  pity, 

Tears  for  the  living  and  the  lifeless  clay) 

In  some  sweet  home  that  I  should  call  my  own, 
Reclining  on  my  couch,  hold  in  each  arm 
A  prattling  child,  and  with  my  kisses  warm 

My  daughter's  first  and  then  my  boy's  voice  drown. 

108 


Were  these,  my  dead,  alive,  while  there  I  lay 
With  my  two  tender  buds  in  close  embrace, 
A  beauteous  flower  would  bend  above  my  face 

And  kiss  my  brow  and  with  her  children  play. 

Were  these,  my  dead,  alive,  each  weary  day 
Would  have  an  evening  hour  of  perfect  joy; 
Each  night,  repose;  sweet  sleep  without  alloy; 

Each  morn  content  would  lead  my  duteous  way. 

At  Wild-wood,  in  the  rain, 
May  /j,  1886, 


"WHEN  DAYLIGHT  DIES." 


When  daylight  dies 

And  o'er  the  landscape  deepening  shadows  glide, 
Yet  not  obscuring  quite  the  meadows  wide 
Nor  the  dark  tortuous  line  where  flows  the  stream, 
Lone,  by  my  chamber  window,  do  I  dream 

When  daylight  dies. 

At  eventide 

When  the  loud,  boisterous  day  is  hushed  to  sleep, 
When  the  slow-waking  stars  begin  to  peep 
Upon  the  drowsing  world  and  murmuring  deep, 
Above  whom  they  will  night-long  vigil  keep; 
While  Canis  shows  his  teeth,  Ursa  his  tail, 
I  muse  serene  and  no  rude  thoughts  assail 
At  eventide. 

When  darkness  falls 

And  through  the  wide-oped  portals  of  my  eyes 
Flit  ghosts  of  landscapes,  high  around  me  rise 
The  circling  hills,  like  black  clouds  in  the  skies; 
Grander  my  thoughts,  higher  my  spirit  flies, 
Winging  its  airy  way  'mong  orbs  by  Thee 
Set  in  Night's  vault  to  watch  the  world  and  me 

When  darkness  falls. 

110 


In  hallowed  peace 

I  close  my  eyes  to  all  but  thee,  Most  High! 
Within  whose  hand  the  wheeling  planets  fly 
As  on  the  infant's  palm  the  whirling  toy 
A  moment  spins  its  round  to  give  him  joy. 
Before  thy  wondrous  might  my  weakness  falls, 
Thy  love  to  thy  great  heart  my  spirit  calls 
In  hallowed  peace. 

November,  1886. 


A  PRAYER. 

God!    almighty  Source  of  power! 

We,  thy  feeble  creatures,  seek 
Strength  for  every  weary  hour 

Of  the  coming  toilsome  week. 

God!    eternal  Source  of  light! 

We  are  groping  on  our  way, 
Shine  upon  our  souls'  dark  night; 

Thou  canst  make  it  clear  as  day! 

God!   thou  only  truly  Wise! 

We,  who  need  so  much  to  know, 
Wisdom  more  than  gems  would  prize; 

Let  us  each  day  wiser  grow! 

God!  thou  very  Heart  of  love — 
Constant,  tender,  pure  and  sweet! 

Grant  this  prayer,  all  else  above: 

With  our  hearts,  in  such  love,  meet! 


SKE  TCHES. 


MY   NATIVE    HAMLET. 


IN  a  contemplative  mood  I  wandered,  to-day,  about  the 
village  in  which  my  earliest  years  were  passed.  In  the 

faces  of  those  whom  I  met  in  my  walk  I  discovered  only 
the  cold  stare  or  half-interested,  questioning  gaze  which 
villagers  give  to  a  stranger.  I  found  upon  my  way  no 
welcome  smile,  nor  even  recognition ;  and  yet,  in  that  little, 
brownish-yellow  house,  a  few  feet  back  from  the  narrow 
sidewalk,  I  began  (in  a  small  way,  truly,  but  with  no  incon 
siderable  eclat)  my  mundane  and  vociferously  independent 
existence. 

As  a  puling,  expressionless  infant,  with  no  very  pleasing 
personal  appearance,  too  freshly  rubicund  and  too  loudly 
discontented  with  my  suddenly-acquired  condition,  aimlessly 
knocking  my  soft  head  with  my  wee  and  harmless  digits, 
utterly  indifferent  to  the  courtesies  of  callers,  not  even  deign 
ing  a  responsive  glance  to  their  oculary  salutations;  a 
tiny  and  total  stranger,  not  only  to  that  community,  but  to 
the  world;  offending,  every  moment,  against  the  commonest 
rules  which  regulate  the  institutions  of  society;  as  heathen 
ish,  indeed,  in  my  conduct  as  though  my  parents  had  leaped 
from  tree-top  to  tree-top  in  an  African  jungle,  with  a  score 
of  yet  more  disagreeable  idiosyncrasies  of  my  natal  state, 
my  advent  to  that  village  (I  am  credibly  informed)  was, 
notwithstanding,  so  phenomenal  and  so  important  an  occasion 
that  no  less  distinguished  a  personage  than  the  principal 

115 


physician  in  those  parts,  the  genial  and  worthy  Doctor  M., 
lent  his  presence,  and,  with  a  condescension  and  familiarity 
which  were  unmerited  by  my  brief  acquaintance  with  him, 
gave  me  a  hearty  slap  of  welcome,  upon  a  region,  luckily, 
in  which  my  tender,  vital  forces  did  not  lie.  Moreover,  the 
accomplished  wife  of  the  clergyman,  the  kind  Mrs.  W.,  did 
me  the  honor  to  volunteer  her  efficient  services  in  introduc 
ing  me  to  some  novel  methods  which  she  deemed  it  expedi 
ent  that  I  should  then  pursue.  The  news  of  my  coming  to 
town  spread  through  the  hamlet,  and  many,  both  old  and 
young,  hastened  to  pay  their  respects  to  me  and  to  con 
gratulate  my  parents  upon  the  accession  of  so  estimable  an 
individual  to  their  household.  The  matrons  and  maids 
bestowed  their  sweetest  osculations,  and  the  men  and  boys 
offered  as  much  of  their  respective  hands  as  they  supposed 
would  be  acceptable  to  the  strange  Lilliputian  or  appreciated 
by  his  limited  capabilities.  In  this  flattering  manner  I  was 
received,  at  a  period  when  to  give  aught  in  return  I  had 
neither  ability  nor  inclination. 

Behold,  now,  the  dull  discernment  of  rural  minds,  and 
mark  the  irrational  discrimination  of  their  energetic  urbanity! 
I  came  among  them  again  to-day,  a  stranger,  as  before,  but 
in  many  respects  strikingly  altered,  and,  I  trust,  to  ad 
vantage.  In  my  stature  there  is  no  suggestion  of  the 
diminutive,  unless,  forsooth,  it  be  in  contrast.  My  manner 
is  now  quiet,  and  neither  selfish  nor  savage.  My  complexion 
has  improved,  and  the  capillary  covering  of  my  cranium  has 
concealed  the  barren  suggestiveness  of  the  former  occasion. 
My  hand  will  now  receive,  with  appreciation,  the  proffered 
palm  of  boy  or  man;  and,  should  the  eyes  of  matron  or  maid 
now  throw  upon  mine  their  soft  strokes  of  affectionate  greet- 

116 


ing,  I  will  not  persist  in  casting  my  glances  divergent  to 
those  attracting  orbs,  nor  will  I,  as  was  my  wont  when  I 
first  appeared  in  this  hamlet,  stuff  my  fists  in  my  mouth  to 
oppose  the  luscious  imprint  of  a  labial  salute;  and  yet, 
strange  to  say,  I  have  come  from  retracing  my  native  paths 
without  having  received  so  much  as  a  nod.  "  Tempora  et 
mores  mutantur  et  nos  mutamur  in  illis" !  But  the  muta 
tions  of  time  have  not  so  sadly  affected  the  impersonal 
associations  of  my  infancy.  There,  before  the  door-way, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  short  walk  from  the  gate  to  the 
portico,  stand  the  two  spruces  which  my  father,  more 
practical  than  sentimental,  brought  home,  in  a  buggy,  from 
his  native  state  when  he  and  my  mother  returned  on  their 
wedding  journey.  The  trees  have  grown  thrice  as  lofty  as 
I,  and  their  dark-green  foliage  drapes  gracefully  from  their 
upward-curved  limbs,  as  fringes  and  tassels  hang  softly 
pendant  from  the  outstretched  arms  of  a  woman.  And 
there,  toward  the  west  from  the  walk,  is  the  apple-tree  (not 
changed  so  much  as  the  spruces),  which  was  so  beautiful  in 
the  spring-time  and  gave  such  sweet  scents  to  my  nostrils, 
and  all  through  the  summer  shaded  myself  and  my  sister 
from  the  too  ardent  sunshine,  and  furnished  strong  arms  that 
held  up  the  never-tiresome  swing,  and,  at  last,  in  the  autumn 
(before  the  leaves  became  yellow  and  rusty  and  fell  to  the 
ground,  leaving  its  poor  limbs  bare  through  all  the  cold 
winter),  offered  to  us  the  juicy  and  fragrant  apples,  each 
dangling  from  one  of  the  tree's  little  fingers.  Here,  to  the 
east  from  the  house,  but  a  few  steps  away,  in  the  yard,  near 
the  fence,  under  a  clump  of  lilacs  and  alders,  is  the  limpid 
spring  whose  cool  currents  have  flowed  through  all  these 
years  as  constant  as  the  warm  streams  from  my  heart. 

117 


Bending  my  little  head  over  its  crystal  depths,  I  often  gazed 
in  childish  wonder  upon  the  boiling  sand  at  the  bottom, 
ceaselessly  yielding  to  the  welling  water;  and  down  there, 
too,  I  saw  a  face  that  opened  its  mouth  and  smiled  and 
winked  and  twisted  itself  all  awry  whenever  mine  did  the 
same. 

There,  on  the  rear  of  the  lot,  alongside  of  the  alley,  is  the 
stable  which  used  to  shelter  the  gentle  bovine  that  I  loved 
(not  the  less,  I  presume,  because  of  the  white  and  nutritious 
secretion  which  my  father  dextrously  abstracted  from  the 
swinging  magazine  beneath  her)  and  whom,  one  day,  when 
her  lacteal  stock  had  diminished  in  worth  below  a  fair  interest 
on  her  flesh,  my  father  killed  and  flayed  and  cut  all  in  pieces, 
greatly  to  my  amusement,  until,  when  he  had  finished,  I  re 
quested  him  to  put  her  together  again,  when,  learning  that  he 
could  not  comply  with  my  wish  and  that  I  never  should  see 
dear  old  Buttercup  again  as  I  used  to,  I  wept  bitterly. 

Down  the  street,  on  the  other  side,  stands  the  same  sacred 
house  in  which,  by  the  side  of  my  mother  or  on  the  lap  of 
my  father,  I  played  with  my  cap  and  kerchief  while  my 
little  feet  swung  to  and  fro,  but  kept  silence  because  I  was 
told  to,  yet  wished  in  my  heart,  with  many  a  sigh,  that  the 
man  would  not  tell  such  a  long  story.  And  back  of  the 
house  is  the  church-yard,  so  quiet  and  dark  with  the  shade  of 
pines,  where,  when  I  was  but  a  year  old,  in  the  arms  of  my 
mother,  I  looked  on  an  open  grave  into  which  some  men 
lowered  the  mortal  remains  of  my  grandmother,  while  I 
laughed  aloud,  in  great  glee,  shocking  the  whole  assemblage, 
but  my  poor  mother  most  of  all,  for  it  was  her  dearest  friend 
who  lay  there  in  the  casket  upon  which  the  cold  clods  were 
to  fall. 

118 


And  up  toward  the  other  end  of  the  hamlet,  is  the  campus 
where  (long  before  the  cruel  war  called  them  to  the  ordeal 
of  bullets  and  blood  and  death,  or,  still  worse,  starvation  in 
rebel  prisons)  the  militia  gathered  on  training-days  in  the 
presence  of  the  villagers  and  country-folk.  The  play- 
soldiers  were  proud  of  their  martial  display,  when,  in  warlike 
attire,  they  executed  manoeuvres  and  performed  evolutions 
according  to  tactics;  especially  the  officers  and  cavalrymen 
upon  their  mettlesome  steeds,  that  were  as  much  stirred  by 
the  music  of  fifes  and  drums  as  were  the  soldiers  and  people; 
and  the  spectators  were  proud  of  the  feigned  warriors,  for 
there  was  no  one  among  them  but  had  some  relation  or 
friend  in  the  company.  Therefore  those  were  always  proud 
days,  the  proudest  of  the  year,  unless,  perhaps,  the  Fourth  of 
July,  which  was  not,  indeed,  unlike  them,  for  the  soldiers 
took  part,  of  course,  in  the  festivities  of  that  national  day  of 
rejoicing  over  our  ancestors'  prowess  in  arms,  though  then 
there  were  also  happy  bands  of  children,  Sabbath-school 
organizations,  in  the  prettiest  dresses  and  ribbons,  coats  and 
caps  which  their  more  or  less  limited  wardrobes  permitted. 
On  those  occasions,  too,  my  father  was,  usually,  the  orator 
of  the  day,  being  chosen  because  he  was  one  of  the  most 
learned  men  in  that  neighborhood,  and  the  most  used  of 
them  all,  save  the  clergyman,  to  literary  effort,  for  he  was 
then  the  village  school-master,  and  exercised  his  honorable 
vocation  in  the  old  school-house  which  I  saw  to-day,  a  little 
further  up  the  street. 

And  there  are  the  same  village  stores  (those  accom 
modating  depositories  of  all  the  various  articles  needful  to 
the  person,  household,  workshop,  or  farm),  where,  in  the 
evenings  or  on  idle  afternoons,  the  men  and  lads  loitered  in 

119 


gossip  or  in  the  graver  discussions  of  politics,  law  or  religion ; 
the  thoughtful  among  them  often  giving  to  their  ideas  much 
more  pleasing  and  practical  forms  than  the  diverted  whittlers 
succeeded,  meanwhile,  in  evolving  by  their  swainish  art 
from  the  pliant  sticks. 

Then,  too,  over  this  broad  highway,  the  turnpike,  one 
of  the  principal  thoroughfares  from  the  metropolis  to  the 
Great  Lakes,  there  daily  rolled  the  cumbrous  but  comfortable, 
rocking  stage-coach,  which  (before  these  days  of  palatial 
whirling  across  the  continent  in  fewer  hours  than  it  then  re 
quired  to  transport  the  traveler  from  one  end  of  the  state  to 
the  other)  was  the  most  fleet  and  commodious  common 
carrier.  I  imagine  I  see  it  now  coming  in  sight  at  the  top 
of  the  hill,  to  the  east,  in  a  halo  of  dust;  and  down  it  comes 
pell-mell,  behind  the  galloping  horses,  bobbing  and  swaying 
to  and  fro  in  such  violent  motion  I  wonder  the  rough,  reck 
less  driver  retains  his  exalted  position;  but,  with  the  most 
nonchalant  air,  he  cracks  his  long  lash  over  the  team,  and, 
while  the  villagers  stop  to  stare  and  query  about  the  oc 
cupants,  the  four-in-hand  dashes  up  to  the  inn,  where  the 
passengers  alight  to  rest  or  partake  of  refreshment.  There 
is  the  weary  and  somnolent  gentleman  who  has  held  (as  well 
as  he  could)  his  seat  in  the  corner  for  half  a  thousand  miles, 
and  the  courageous  maiden  who  is  returning  from  a  pro 
tracted  visit  to  friends  "east  of  the  mountains";  the  matron, 
way-billed  from  the  last  county,  who  is  going  to  see 
Rebecca,  her  daughter,  and  make  the  acquaintance  of  some 
new  representatives  of  the  family,  who  will  joyously  greet 
their  grandmother;  besides,  a  mother  with  three  or  four 
children  (the  youngsters  so  happy  they  are  really  quiet  with 
interest  and  expectation),  who  got  on  at  C.  and  are  billed 

120 


to  F.,  where  they  will  spend  a  fortnight  with  the  "old 
folks,"  the  mother's  parents.  Then  the  coach  rolls  across  to 
the  post-office,  where  the  driver  throws  out  from  the  boot 
the  big  mail-bag.  There  the  always  expectant  group 
gathers  to  watch  the  assorting  of  letters  and  newspapers,  and 
when  it  is  over,  some  of  the  group  turn  away,  as  they  have 
done  every  day  for  a  month,  empty-handed,  and  yet  they 
will  come  to-morrow  again,  just  the  same.  And  now  the 
big  mail-bag  is  returned  to  the  boot  under  the  feet  of  the 
driver,  and  the  coach  has  received  at  the  inn  its  late  oc 
cupants  and  away  down  the  street  it  is  fast  disappearing 
from  the  view  of  the  villagers. 

Thus,  as  I  strolled  through  the  little  hamlet  which  was 
once  my  home,  the  mute  and  inanimate  relics  that  yet 
remain  suggested  a  thousand  dear  recollections  of  friends 
and  events  that  were  borne  out  of  sight  in  Time's  chariot, 
as  the  travelers  used  to  be  carried  away  in  the  soft-cush 
ioned,  lumbering  stage  coach. 

Yes!  my  friends  have  departed,  and  those  who  once  knew 
me  are  gone,  or  they  have  forgotten  me,  and  I  was,  to-day,  a 
stranger  in  the  place  of  my  birth.  But  many  old  landmarks 
are  there  just  as  they  were  thirty-five  years  ago;  and  by 
them  I  was  welcomed  and  brought  into  sweet  intercourse 
with  the  spirits  of  dead  institutions  and  long-buried  incidents 
of  the  years  of  my  infancy.  And,  although  the  village  seems 
dead,  too,  or  very  soundly  asleep,  for  I  saw  none  of  that 
warm  animation  that  ever  appeared  when  I  knew  it  long 
since;  and,  although  it  has  wondrously  shrunken  in  my 
estimation  as  a  part  of  the  world,  for  my  world  of  to-day  is 
so  vastly  greater  than  my  world  of  that  other  day;  and, 
although  I  shall  never  again  have  welcome  of  words  in  this 

121 


hamlet;  even  though  all  the  rest  of  these  present  suggestions 
of  the  past  shall  also  depart,  yet  I  will  sometimes  come  and 
awaken  my  earliest  memories  in  lonely  and  sad,  but  sweet, 
contemplation  as  long  as  the  spring  under  the  little  mound 
in  the  yard,  near  the  roadside,  shall  continue  to  well,  from 
the  sand  at  the  bottom,  the  cool,  limpid  water  in  which  I  so 
often  beheld  the  reflection  of  the  innocent  face  of  a  child. 
February  26,  1886. 


"MY   LIFE    IS   A  STREAM." 

MY  life  is  a  stream,  now  narrowly  flowing  between  very 
high  and  barren  hills,  that  come  sharply  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  leaving  no  low,  fertile  spot  which  it 
might  nourish,  nor  even  a  path  by  its  side  upon  which  men 
might  walk.  So,  as  they  pass  along,  it  is  high  upon  the 
hillside,  and  they  cast  but  distant  glances  toward  the  low 
water.  An  idle  stream,  bearing  no  burden  of  precious 
freight  or  more  precious  life,  but  navigable,  and  its  yielding 
surface  is  awaiting  the  touch  of  some  confident  craft  to 
awaken  its  unwilling  indolence  to  agreeable  action.  A  quiet 
stream;  on  so  dead  a  level  lazily  lolling,  it  turns  no  wheel  in 
all  the  whirling  machinery  of  the  world.  The  high  hills 
shutting  out  the  beauty  beyond  them,  and  even  the  light 
above  them,  make  the  stream  dark  and  gloomy,  and  leave  it 
alone  to  itself  with  only  their  bleakness.  The  stream  can  not 
peer  further  down  the  valley  than  the  point  it  has  reached, 
for  a  thick  fog  is  there,  which  it  touches  but  can  not  lift. 
Only  one  way  can  it  look — backward,  over  the  long,  narrow 
length  of  itself,  from  the  little  beginning  down,  increasing 
so  slowly  in  size  and  strength,  but  murmuring  sweetly  all 
through  its  youthtime;  playing  with  pebbles,  shaking  the 
hand  of  a  little  bough  bent  over  it  and  smiling  as  pretty 
a  smile  in  the  face  pf  a  pendant  flower  as  it  gives  to  the 
stream ;  then  laughing  at  the  big  stones  placed  in  its  bed  by 
a  youth  for  his  maid  to  walk  over  upon;  and  roaring  with 

123 


glee  as  it  dashes  around  a  great  rock  that  it  finds  in  its  way ; 
no  obstacle  but  it  can  master.  Now,  in  more  dignified  man 
ner,  and  proud  of  the  use  made  of  it,  the  stream  pushes 
against  the  breast  of  a  wheel  with  its  hands  and  a  strength 
that  rolls  it  around  like  a  barrel;  and  the  wheel  turns  the 
mill  and  the  mill  grinds  the  wheat  into  flour  which  the  maid 
bakes  in  bread  for  the  household.  The  stream  is  so  happy 
to  know  that  it  labors  for  others  and  does  some  good  that, 
under  the  wheel,  it  bubbles  and  boils  with  delight.  Still 
further  on  it  carries  the  logs  and  the  lumber  and  does  the 
roughest  of  work  that  a  stream  may  do.  Later,  the  stream 
is  entrusted  to  carry  a  beautiful  craft  on  its  bosom,  and  this 
is  the  greatest  enjoyment  that  stream  ever  had,  though  it 
now  does  not  tumble  and  toss  and  foam  in  its  pleasure,  but 
down  in  its  bosom  it  feels  the  strong  touch  of  her  keel  and 
spreads  out  its  arms  and  embraces  the  vessel  as  much  as  it 
may.  But  once,  in  the  night,  a  negligent  pilot  guided  the 
pretty  craft  against  a  great  rock;  and  the  shock  made  the 
stream  tremble  and  lash  the  shores  with  its  waves  of  dis 
pleasure  and  grief,  for  the  craft  was  broken  to  pieces.  The 
stream,  looking  back  now,  sees  only  some  parts  of  her  fur 
nishing  lying  along  the  shores,  clinging  to  rocks  and  to  roots 
that  were  glad  to  embrace  a  memento  of  that  lovely  craft. 
Then,  as  the  stream  flows  on — for  it  could  not  stop — the 
shores  become  higher  and  higher,  the  low,  verdurous  banks 
and  the  trees  disappear  and,  at  last,  the  stream  is  encompassed 
as  I  described  to  you  when  I  began. 

But  while  it  is  narrower,  darker  and  hidden,  it  is  deeper, 
and  a  sweet  under-current  of  feeling,  .that  has  not  on  the 
surface  an  index,  is  quietly  flowing  on  into  the  future,  under 
the  fog. 

124 


If,  in  the  uncertain  gloom,  it  shall  fall  into  a  cavern  of 
earth  and  never  again  appear  in  the  light  of  the  sun  nor  take 
part  in  the  bustle  of  life,  it  will  dream  of  the  light  it  has  seen, 
and  enjoy,  in  reflection,  the  pleasures  of  work  it  has  done. 

Or,  if  it  shall  be  that  a  little  beyond  these  precipitous 
walls  that  enclose  it,  and  which  are  so  strong  it  cannot  break 
through  them,  a  little  beyond  the  thick  cloud  that  is  now 
overhanging  it,  there  shall  appear  a  broad  plain,  whose  grass 
it  may  nourish;  or,  stumbling  over  some  obstacle,  it  shall 
alight  on  the  wheel  of  a  mill;  or,  if  on  its  bosom  someone, 
in  temerity,  places  his  vessel,  heavily  laden  with  woes,  or 
with  hopes,  or  with  fortunes,  the  stream  will  be  glad,  and 
so  work  with  a  will  at  whatever  its  hands  find  to  do. 


SENTIMENT. 


1  REMEMBER  you  questioned  me  once  as  to  what  I  en 
joyed  most,  and  when  I  replied,  with  some  hesitation, 

"Sentiment!"  you  seemed  disappointed.  I  meant  by 
that  word  what  I  take  its  true  meaning  to  be — a  creation, 
resulting  from  a  thoughtful,  intelligent  retrospection  of  a 
soul's  deep  experience — and  this  is  my  greatest,  I  may  say 
my  only  thorough  enjoyment.  I  enjoy  my  work  when  I 
have  it  to  do;  I  enjoy  the  success  of  endeavor  and  endeavor 
itself,  but  sentiment  most.  I  find  it,  of  course,  in  poetry  and 
the  poetic  expressions  of  prose.  But,  to  me,  it  comes  most 
sweetly  fresh  from  the  touch  of  an  external  hand  on  the 
chords  of  some  sense. 

I  inhale  its  perfume  in  the  breath  of  a  rose,  in  the  sweet- 
scented  violets  and  the  dear  apple-blossoms. 

I  hear  it  in  brooks  and  the  voices  of  birds,  in  the  sough 
ing  tree-tops,  in  the  cadence  of  winds  round  the  eaves  and  the 
sash,  and  in  patter  of  rain  on  the  roof. 

I  see  it  in  flowers  and  the  faces  of  women,  in  the  sunset, 
and  up  in  the  clear  sky  at  night,  in  the  woods  and  the  fields 
and  the  sparkle  of  dew-drops. 

I  feel  it  in  the  touch  of  a  zephyr,  in  the  tremor  of  earth 
when  a  train  thunders  by,  in  my  trembling  nerves  that  vibrate 
to  touches  of  joy  or  of  woe — for  even  the  chamber  of  Death 
may  give  a  sweet  thrill  to  a  thought. 


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